


Laws of Nature

by avocadomoon



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti)
Genre: F/M, M/M, Post-Canon, some real Doctor Who timey-wimey woohoo shit
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-27
Updated: 2020-03-05
Packaged: 2021-02-28 07:13:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 25,124
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22919755
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/avocadomoon/pseuds/avocadomoon
Summary: It wasn't just the clown. It was all kinds of odd, reality-bending shit. Like one day in tenth grade, their principal was a middle-aged woman named Mrs. Holland, and the next, it was a young twentysomething guy named Mr. Holland, but he wanted everyone to call him by his first name, which was Tom. And everyone seemed to act like it had always been Mr. Holland, and not Mrs. Holland, nobody had ever heard of a Mrs. Holland, and so the Losers sort of pretended like they remembered the same things everyone else did, and they didn't talk about it. Like, fuck that shit.
Relationships: Ben Hanscom/Beverly Marsh, Bill Denbrough & Mike Hanlon & Ben Hanscom & Eddie Kaspbrak & Beverly Marsh & Richie Tozier, Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Comments: 34
Kudos: 104





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> tw: use of slurs, rape mention, description of abuse between partners

The first problem is Richie's glasses, which were shattered when somebody - _Bill_ \- stepped on them as they were climbing out of the water like a big fucking idiot. The second problem is that Bill now has a bunch of glass in his foot. Like a _lot_ of glass, and it's really deep. Pretty gross, to be honest.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck," he says, slapping Eddie's hands away with one hand and clutching his ankle with the other. "Not you! Where's B-Bev. Bev!"

"Jesus Christ," says Bev, standing on a rock in just her bra, wringing her shirt out onto the glass. Everyone is politely not looking at her, aside from Richie, who is staring vaguely in her direction accidentally because he can't really see anything, at the current moment. "I'm not pulling glass out of your foot, Bill. Is it because I'm a woman?"

"N-no," Bill says weakly, which means yes. 

"I can do it, you pussy," says Eddie, kind and delicate as always, "do you know how many first aid certifications I have?"

"'Do you know how many first aid certifications I have?'" parrots Richie, in a Bugs Bunny voice. 

"Do that one more time, Trashmouth, and I'm gonna shit in your lap and make you eat it," Eddie says fiercely, whipping around on his knees. Richie's eyes go wide in his face, and then narrow as he considers his next move. 

"Don't do it, Rich," Mike says, watching from his own rock a few feet away. Still in the water, next to his knee, Ben snickers. Water is dripping from his hot-guy beard, his hair clumped in weird tufts, making him look like a wet cat. "Seriously, man - "

"'Do that one more time, Trashmouth, and I'm - ' oh fuck!" Richie ducks a men's loafer that goes flying at his face. "Was that your shit, Eddie? I can't see anything - guys, did he just throw his own shit at me?!"

"Nobody has shitted," Bev says grandly, hopping down onto the grass and pulling her wet shirt around her shoulders like a beach towel. "Or if they did, it was probably in the water."

"I definitely shit my pants once or twice since I got here," Richie informs the crowd, his cheek pressed to the rocks. He looks so different without his glasses - his face more vulnerable, somehow, or maybe that's just because his eyes are red-rimmed and unfocused. "I stopped paying attention to it after the second time. It became a normal bodily function. Heart beating, lungs breathing, ass shitting. You know."

"Jesus Christ, we're all gonna get malaria," Eddie says, but he sounds kind of resigned to it. He bends over Bill's foot one more time and pokes at one of the glass shards, ignoring Bill's grit-teeth moan of pain. "You're probably gonna need stitches, man."

"There's an urgent care on Fourteenth now," Mike says helpfully. "The doctor there's a huge racist. But if I don't go in with you - and you don't tell them you know me - and if nobody takes the Lord's name in vain - then he'll probably treat you."

"Jesus, M-Mike," Bill says on a groan. "Where'd you get your flu shots?"

"Flu shots?" Mike repeats, like it's a concept that's never occurred to him before, and Eddie makes a sound of audible distress. 

"I'll take Bill," Ben volunteers chivalrously, and hitches himself up out of the water onto the rocks. Water streams down his sodden t-shirt, the sun gleaming on the bare skin of his calves, muscles flexing satisfyingly, and all five non-vision-impaired adults lose track of their trains of thought simultaneously. "Who still has a working car?"

"My rental is probably still alive," Richie says. He reaches out and pokes Bev's leg. "Why are you breathing like that? Are you hurt too?"

"Fuck - it's - no," Bev stammers, and jumps away from Richie's hand. "Shut up."

"Somebody check Bev," Richie hollers. "Is she bleeding? She looks like a big red blur to me, I can't tell."

"I'm not bleeding, asshole, beep beep!"

"Sheesh, I was just asking," Richie says. Bill and Eddie look at each other and try not to laugh. "The keys are in it, Haystack. Help yourself."

"You left your keys in your car?" Eddie asks. "Oh my God, you're so fucking stupid."

"It's not _my_ car, Edwina, it's a _rental._ I'm not even paying for it."

"Oh, Mr. Hollywood doesn't even pay for his own rental cars," Eddie snaps, which is one of his weaker comebacks, but they're all tired, it's been a long day. He can have a pass. " _Somebody_ has to pay for it when it gets stolen by some bastard high schooler going for a joyride - "

"Jeeeeeesus," Richie says, "like any of my management would trust me with a company card. No, asshole, when I told the guy at the rental place that I was going to Derry, he started having a panic attack right there in the lobby, and then the manager came out and started to have one too, and then they just gave me the keys and asked me to leave. So." Richie frowns into the middle distance. "I never even gave them my card. I wonder if that means I do own it, now."

Mike lets out a slightly hysterical, high-pitched laugh. All of them politely don't comment. 

"When I booked my plane ticket, the website crashed like eight times," Bev says shakily. "I had to call the airline to buy it. And the lady asked me like a dozen different times if I was sure."

"Same," Bill says, leaning hard on Eddie's shoulder as he struggles to his feet. "I had my assistant book me a ticket. It took her two hours and then she gave me her notice right after."

"I, uh," Ben says, and clears his throat conspicuously, "I took the train. The people at Amtrak kept giving me those 'if you're being trafficked, give this to your attendant' stickers."

All of them stare at each other for a long moment - excepting Richie, of course, who is breathing heavily with one hand over his useless eyes. Then Bev looks at Eddie and raises her eyebrows expectantly, which makes him scowl so hard his face actually changes shape. 

"I do not," he announces darkly, practically biting the words out, "want to talk about mine."

"Okay," Bill says carefully, after a beat of silence. Clumsily, he reaches up and pats Eddie's shoulder. "You're cool, man. It's cool."

Eddie seems to be deliberately forcing his scowl off his face, with what looks to be considerable effort. "I think your stutter's getting better, Bill."

"It c-comes and goes," Bill says. He hops a little, getting his arm more firmly around Eddie's shoulders, and grimaces deeply as his injured foot brushes against the ground. "Painkillers. Please."

"It's in the strip mall next to Chick-Fil-A," Mike says, walking over to tug on Richie's arm. Ben joins Bill and Eddie, adding his arm to the support, and Bev trails behind, picking up the discarded clothes in her arms, her tits still spilling haphazardly out of her bra. None of them seem to have really noticed, though. "Don't park in the main lot, though, because the lady who runs the thrift shop next door is a fucking demon, not kidding. She will absolutely come out and yell at you, because she thinks all the spots are hers, even though nobody ever shops there. The doctor had to sue to get assigned spots for his employees. You'll have to park on the street - but on the west side, not the east, because the west side is too close to the bar, and it's already like five-thirty, somebody might try to break your windows or something. And be careful when you're on the street, if people see three men hugging in public - well - "

"Jesus fucking Christ, Mikey," Richie interrupts, reaching out blindly for him. Mike helpfully steps closer, grabbing Richie's wrist before his hand connects with his face. Richie promptly pulls him close with spider arms, gripping his neck tightly. "You're killing me. You're fucking killing me."

Mike smiles wobbily, tilting his head to let Richie press a sloppy kiss against his temple. "I'm really glad you guys are here," he says quietly. Bev makes a hurt sound, moving in close and pressing her own kiss against Mike's wet shoulder. 

"We never should have left," Eddie says fiercely. His hands are trembling around Bill's waist. "We never should've - "

"Nah, man," Mike interrupts, "that ain't it. That ain't it, Eds."

"Don't call me that," Eddie says, still dark with anger. But he sniffles a little, and he lets Bill pat the side of his face clumsily. 

"Let's go," Ben says quietly, looking at each one of them in turn with bright, watery eyes. His smile is wobbly too, but none of them mention it. "Should we - Mikey, can we - "

"My place, yeah," Mike says, rubbing his chin and nodding. "Let's meet there." Bev squeezes his hand as he turns and starts walking up towards the road. She moves easily into the space he'd just vacated, and Richie's arm comes up around her shoulders like it's just natural, thoughtless. Something they've always done, and have been doing for years. 

Or should've been doing. What's the difference, anyway?

"I'm still blind," Richie says, as they all start to make their way up. Bev and Richie carefully behind the six-legged monster that is Bill, Ben, and Eddie, all three men cursing fiercely as they navigate the rocky, jagged hill. "Fuck, I'm gonna have to get a new prescription or something. I haven't had to buy glasses in, I dunno, eight years."

"These lasted that long?" Bev asks skeptically, holding up the crushed frames. 

"I kept losing them on tour, and this one time at a meet and greet this kid - well, that's a crappy story, remind me to tell you when I'm drunk - anyway, my manager told me to get spares and he was kind of bitchy about it, so I bought like twelve pairs and charged them to the management company, just to be an asshole. But it turned out to be a pretty good idea. Saved me a lot of money, el-oh-el, which is coincidentally why they don't let me have a company card anymore," Richie finishes with a shrug. "I think I have one last spare left, but I don't think I brought them. I, uh, wasn't really thinking too clearly when I was packing."

Bev nods sagely. "I brought eight pairs of pants, but I forgot clean underwear. I've been going commando for two days now."

"Sexy," Richie says dully. They fistbump each other perfunctorily. 

"Bev, you're not wearing underwear?!" Eddie exclaims, yanking his head over Bill's shoulder to glare. "Do you know how many STDs were probably in that sewer water? Jesus Christ, you're gonna - "

"Beep beep, Eds," Richie says. 

Bev is laughing. "Bill, punch Eddie in the dick for me."

Bill groans in pain as his foot knocks against the ground. "Raincheck. Do it later," he grunts.

"I'll punch him in the dick as soon as we get Bill to the road, Bev," Ben says loyally. 

Bev tucks in closer to Richie's side, grinning so widely her face hurts. "I love you motherfuckers so fucking much," she says. 

The process of getting Bill to Urgent Care - and Eddie too, since his cheek opened up again about halfway up the hill, in the middle of a rant about bacterial infection - eats up the rest of the night. Richie's rental car is one of those electric asshole sedans, and they can barely fit Bill into its backseat, let alone Ben and Eddie too, so Richie and Bev hang back with Mike to hitch a ride back to the library. 

"Bad idea, bad idea," Mike mutters, as Bev happily waves her tits at the oncoming cars, taking one for the team, as it were. Her shirt is dry enough to wear now, but she seems to be really enjoying walking around in her bra, for some reason. Mike's having a hard time looking at the bruises on her ribcage, which are definitely too old to have come from Pennywise. 

"Ooh look, I got one," Bev says, fearless and proud of herself, but once the guy in the truck starts to talk her face shuts down and she pulls them down the highway herself, one middle finger up in the air as they walk away. The guy in the truck honks the horn at them and tears off down the road in the opposite direction, leaving burnt rubber tracks on the cement, and anyway, they walk back. 

She does put her shirt back on eventually, but the second they hit Mike's apartment she takes it off again and slam dunks it into the trash can. Considering her shirt is covered in clown blood and sewer shit, neither Mike nor Richie blame her. Speaking of - 

"We all need a shower," Mike proclaims, and tries to remember how much soap he has left. "Richie, you're too goddamn tall. None of my clothes are gonna fit you."

"Toga party!" Richie warbles, but his voice is shaking with exhaustion, so the effect is somewhat lessened. 

"The Hannaford around the corner might have some clothes," Mike says thoughtfully. 

"If you let me shower first, I'll go," Bev volunteers, and Mike happily gives her free reign and first shot at whatever the hell he's got in his bathroom. 

As Bev is washing some of the trauma off in the shower, Richie and Mike share a sleeve of Ritz crackers on the couch, both of them shaky and dehydrated and sort of nauseous. Mike and Bev were the only ones who made it out with working phones, and Bev had given hers to Ben, so they get neurotic updates from Eddie from Urgent Care, as he waits to see the doctor for his fucked up cheek: _We're in line behind some fuckwad with a broken collarbone. What the fuck????? What grown man owns a four-wheeler?????_ and _Bill has to get more stitches in his foot than I have in my face, haha dumbass,_ and _they gave me so much codeine. Enough to share!!!!!!_

"What a nerdy little shit," Richie says, and his face is so nakedly fond that Mike gets a lump in his throat and has to look away for a second. 

In the time it takes Bev to find some clothes in Mike's dresser that won't fall right off of her, Mike takes a military-fast shower and Richie falls asleep face down on the couch. Bev ties one of Mike's t-shirts at her lower back, hitches up the sweatpants, and covers him up with a throw blanket. Then she and Mike go to the grocery store. 

"You guys still all have stuff at the Townhouse, right?" Mike asks quietly, as they walk timidly into the busy grocery store. The rest of the town had been quiet, almost deserted, as they'd walked back to the library, and this sudden explosion of light and color and normalcy is wigging both of them out. "Suitcases and stuff - I know Bill rented a car too - "

"I haven't seen Bill's rental since, I don't know, the Chinese restaurant maybe," Bev says, grabbing a bag of oranges off a display. Oranges are good. They have Vitamin C and they're easy to eat. Right? Mike grabs a cart from a small line by the door, and Bev sets them carefully in the child's seat by the handle. "Richie had a suitcase. Eddie probably has like, ten - "

"Eddie," Mike repeats, still sounding sort of shell-shocked, like he still can't quite believe that this is all happening. Bev's heart twists for him. 

"I dunno, Mike. Maybe when they get back from Urgent Care we can send someone over to pick up the stuff. Wait, this is alright, isn't it? Staying with you?"

"Of course," Mike says, scoffing. "Duh."

"I mean, if you have someone - a girlfriend or boyfriend or a roommate, whatever, we could clear out, just give us the word - "

"There's nobody," Mike interrupts, and starts pushing the cart determinedly into the produce section.

Bev bites her lip, her heart twisting again. "Mikey."

"Look around, Beverly," Mike says, his voice hushed. Bev blinks, eyeing the people milling about the store cautiously. None of them are looking at them. "This is what it's like. This is what living here is like. Hey-o!" He yells suddenly, reaching out and punching the arm of a middle-aged guy in a flannel, poking at the tomatoes. "Harry, you son of a bitch! How are you!?"

The man - Harry - doesn't look up, or react, doesn't even blink. He just keeps poking at the tomatoes, and Bev watches with a tight throat as he turns away after a second, wandering over to the avocados next, as if Mike isn't even there.

"I could streak naked through this goddamn store and nobody would even blink," Mike tells her, and amazingly, he doesn't sound bitter - just tired. "It started after Eddie and his mom left - the last one of you to leave. They talk to me when I'm at the library - they notice me, whatever you want to call it - and the shithead racists _definitely_ notice me. But if they're not calling me names or yelling at me about the books their kids are reading or trying to beat me up in the parking lot of the Sleepy Silver Dollar on a Friday night, it's like I'm a fucking ghost. Like I don't even exist."

"Jesus," Bev says, and steps closer to slide her arm around Mike's, looping their arms together. "Jesus, Mikey."

"So yeah, it's been awhile since I dated anyone," Mike says, closing his eyes briefly and shuddering, a little, when she kisses his shoulder again. They push the cart together, after a moment, somberly regarding the rows of fruits and vegetables like they're walking past rows of graves in a cemetery. "Anyway. How have _you_ been?"

Bev laughs tearfully, her cheek still pressed against his arm. "God. I don't even know where to begin, Mikey."

"Let's begin with bananas," Mike decides, and picks up a bunch of nice-looking yellow ones. 

"Good start," Bev says. "Let's get some cucumbers also. Do they have those pre-cut veggie platters here? With the ranch dip in the middle? That makes for good snacking when you're high, and we're _definitely_ getting high later."

Mike, who used to turn his nose up at Bev and Richie's joints in high school, who earnestly joined DARE club in ninth grade, who would sneak their cigarettes out of their pockets when he thought they weren't looking and throw them away, sags against her with a sigh so deep he feels it in his bones. "Thank fucking God," he says. "I could really use a fucking break."

Richie wakes up on Mike's couch from a shitty nightmare, and breathes heavily for a few minutes, trying to hold off a panic attack because he can't see anything, he can't hear Bev or Mike, and for a moment he doesn't know where he is. The smells filter back in first - Mike smells, book dust and flavored coffee and Old Spice deodorant - and Richie takes a second to wonder why it all seems so familiar, these grown up Mike things, because it's been twenty-seven years and Mike didn't even drink coffee when they were kids. 

Mike's phone is buzzing by his ear. Richie slaps his own face a couple times, getting himself under control, and picks it up. If he holds it half an inch away from his eyes, he can sort of read the screen, and he's pretty sure somebody's calling. He swipes at the green blob and hopes for the best. 

"Mike?" Eddie demands. Of course he's the type of person who doesn't say hello. If they'd had cell phones back in high school, Richie can only _imagine_ Eddie's deep, profound frustration. He can't wait to see how he reacts to Bitmojis. "Mike, are you there?"

"Sorry, sir, Mike can't come to the phone right now," Richie says in a Betty Boop voice. "Must be your lucky day, sailor, because you've caught me instead!"

"I hate you," Eddie says lazily, "put Mike or Bev on. What are you doing answering the phone even, aren't you still blind?"

"Mike and Bev aren't here," Richie says, still too tired to keep up the bit. He sits up gingerly - he must've done something to his back in all the running away and screaming, because it's stiff as a board and yelling bloody murder at him - and he smells like a toilet. So, like a typical day for Richie between the ages of twenty-six and thirty-five, basically. Before rehab, and after he got rich. "I fell asleep while they were cleaning up. I think they said something about the grocery store." He rubs at his face, and feels something crumble off his beard, and really, _really_ hopes it's dirt. "Where are you? How's your fucked up face?"

"My fucked up face is fine," Eddie says, sounding a little high, which Richie can tell because he's over-pronouncing words. He doesn't even mess up the tongue twister, which always used to make Bill really fucking mad, because his stutter got a million times worse whenever he smoked up. He must've broken into that codeine early. "So is Bill's fucked up foot. Listen, are we all crashing at Mike's? Or are we going back to the Townhouse later? Because Ben says he has some important stuff there."

Richie thinks about the laptop bag he'd seen Eddie clutching protectively as they checked into their rooms the other night, and decides not to mention it. His chest feels a little wheezy, like he's been smoking. "I think we're crashing here? I dunno." He squints around at the blurry room, like if he tries hard enough his eyesight will miraculously fix itself. "Maybe go get the stuff while you have the car."

"Do you have anything in your room that you want? I can grab it for you."

Richie tries really hard to remember what exactly he'd packed in his suitcase, but the entire day and a half lead up to when he'd stumbled into the rental car place in Portland feels like a coked up fever dream. Possibly he had some spare clothes? Maybe a toothbrush. No, that sounds too reasonable. "I'm...not sure."

"You're not sure," Eddie repeats flatly. 

"I'm…" Richie rubs at his face again - his whole body is sort of itchy. His clothes have half-dried on one side, and stayed damp on the other, where they were pressed against Mike's now-gross couch. Sorry, Mike. "I don't know, Eds. I don't fucking know. I can't even remember if I brought my meds. I just - "

"Okay," Eddie says, calm and even. "Okay. Do you want me to look? I'll just look and see what you brought. I'll bring anything that looks important. Is that okay?"

Richie feels lightheaded with relief, and gratitude, and a locked-up feeling that he'll examine a little bit later when he's less sober. "Yes. That's okay. Thanks, thank you."

"Okay." In the background of the call, Richie can hear Ben and Bill's voices, familiar murmurs. Big Bill and Benjy. Richie's head hurts. "Are you okay? I mean, alone, until they get back?"

"I - " it hadn't occurred to him to be scared, or wary, but now that Eddie's brought it up Richie starts to feel a little uneasy. "They just went around the corner."

"Alright, man."

"Don't call me 'man,' Eddie."

"Are you not a man?" Eddie asks patiently, like he's inquiring about the weather.

"No," Richie says, deadpan, "I'm a pretty little girl, Edward."

A long beat of silence. "That was funny," Eddie says idly, without even a hint of laughter in his voice. Richie bites back a hysterical giggle. "Hang in there, Rich. We'll be back soon."

"Okay," Richie says, hearing his voice waver a little and cringing. _Super hot, fuckwad. When he gets back you can cry on him some more and then he'll be begging for your dick._ "Hey, Eddie, do me a favor and tell Bill and Ben that I made a 'your mom' joke. Like a really nasty one. I'll think of what it should be later."

"Fuck you, Richie! My mother is _dead,_ give up the joke already!" Eddie says, not even missing a beat, and then he hangs up. Richie wipes his eyes and grins goofily up at the blurry ceiling. What a fucking prick. 

Bev and Mike have gone a little overboard, but it's not like they don't deserve it. Richie attempts to help unload all their bags - they'd stolen a fucking shopping cart to get it back to the apartment - but after he runs into the counter a third time Bev confines him to the couch. 

"Do you have an optometrist?" she calls, as she stuffs Mike's sad, bachelor fridge full to the brim. It's the most food Mike's had in his home probably ever. "Someone you can call, that has your prescription on file? They might be able to send it to the pharmacy here!"

"I...yes, but I don't remember his name off the top of my head," Richie says helplessly, not wanting to admit that he doesn't know. "And my phone is fucked. I didn't bring my laptop with me, either."

"You know your passwords?" Mike asks gravely. "To your email, Google Drive, whatever?"

"Yeah."

Mike pats his head, like he's reassuring a dog. "I have a computer. Shower first, then we'll work on it."

"Okay," Richie says meekly. He only runs into the wall once, on his way to the bathroom. 

Bev picked out tons of fancy soap. There's body wash, shampoo, conditioner, bar soap, liquid soap, hand soap, dishwashing soap. Richie very seriously considers using the Dawn on himself because the sewer had been really, really fucking gross, but the phantom voice of Eddie in his head, yelling about moisturizing, stops him. He washes his hair twice with something called Purifying + Detox Charcoal Shampoo, and cries for five minutes or so with his face pressed against the shower wall, trying to rub the image of Stan's dismembered head right out of his brain with some raspberry-scented body wash and a purple exfoliator. 

In the kitchen, Bev and Mike can't decide what kind of food to make, suddenly overwhelmed by choice. Waffling between the frozen pizzas and the very tempting pre-made taco meat, Bev finally takes a deep breath and says, "fuck it, let's do both." Mike manages to fit three pizzas in the oven while Bev warms up the taco stuff on the stove, and suddenly it's like they're sixteen again, cooking enchiladas at Bill's house for movie night because Mike found a good recipe and Bev shoplifted some fancy hot sauce from the convenience store and it shouldn't go to waste. 

"Mikey," Bev whispers, leaning heavily against the counter as they watch the meat sizzle in the pan, "do you think the reason people are...the way they are here - I mean, now that It's dead, don't you think it should've stopped? That people would go back to normal?"

"I don't know," Mike says. He thinks about it for a minute. "I think...Bev, I found a lot of different things, over the years, in a lot of different places. Castle Rock has a lot of weird shit, so does Chamberlain. Jerusalem's Lot, Chester's Mill. And that's just in Maine - Boulder, Colorado is _really_ fucking weird - Desperation, Nevada, New Rochelle, New York, Nashua, New Hampshire...I've found all sorts of things. Things that didn't really seem to me like Pennywise."

Bev finds that she's holding her breath. "There are...other things? Other creatures, like It?"

"I don't know. Maybe." Mike rubs his chin, which Bev is starting to discover is a habit of his, an echo of the way he used to rub his shoulder when he was a kid. Something tears inside of her chest, thinking of little thirteen-year-old Mikey, rubbing her shoulder as they sat on the steps of the arcade, talking her through a panic attack. "I think it's just Derry, Bev. I think It was here for a reason, because Derry was already...that way." He swallows. "I think even with everything we know, we still don't know shit. You know what I mean?"

"No," Bev jokes, and squeezes his arm as he chokes out a watery laugh. 

The pizzas start to burn just as Richie gropes his way out of the bathroom, wrapped in three towels and one of Mike's clean t-shirts on his head, turban-style. Mike grouses at him and makes him put on the outfit they got at the grocery store - a Derry High extra-large hoodie and some plus size sweatpants that are way too big in the waist, but just long enough to reach his ankles - and Richie runs into the wall again as he goes right back into the bathroom to change.

"I can feel you smirking at me!" he yells through the door, and Bev snickers into the taco meat, and Mike cuts up the pizzas. "Stop smirking!"

"We have got to get him some glasses," Bev mumbles. 

The sweatpants keep falling down and Richie keeps flashing his ass at them on purpose, so Bev makes him wrap the throw blanket from the couch around his waist as he shovels pizza in his mouth like he hasn't eaten in months. Then she throws away their dirty clothes and the cushions on the couch - sorry, Mike - and when she's reaching up to the top cupboard to grab some plates, she inhales sharply, wincing so hard her face crumples up, and Mike has to jog over to grab the stack of ceramic before she drops the whole thing on her head. 

"I got it, I got it," he says softly, and Bev blushes and turns away, still holding her ribcage gingerly. Blinking fuzzily at the scene from the kitchen table, Richie's face twists darkly, and he reaches out a hand, making a grabby motion. Bev gives him her palm, and allows herself to be tugged, and for the rest of dinner they sit there huddled together beneath the blanket, making gross noises into the pizza. 

"Where is everyone gonna sleep?" Richie asks, his energy fading fast again, now that he's cleansed and fed. Bev seems to be a similar place, her shoulder digging heavily into Richie's chest, her eyes drooping. "Mike, how big is your bed? Dibs, by the way."

"You can't call dibs on _my_ bed," Mike says. 

"Yes, I can. Somebody's gonna have to share with you, and I haven't felt the touch of a real man since - "

"Mike gets to choose who he's gonna grope tonight, thank you very much," Bev interrupts. "The floor is fine. Bill should take the couch, with his foot - "

"Oh, right. Eddie gets stabbed, Mike gets attempted murdered, but it's _Bill_ who gets the special treatment because he tripped on his way home from the murder fest. Makes sense."

"Bev, you can have my bed if you want, it's just a twin so it's not really big enough to share," Mike says kindly. "And the couch pulls out. Two people could probably fit."

Richie gasps. "You didn't mention that earlier!"

"You looked so comfortable already, Rich," Mike says blandly, and shoves half a taco in his mouth. 

The incoming squabble over beds is pretty quickly cut off when Richie face plants again, almost passing out right there at the table. Bev and Mike kindly lead him into the bedroom and let him have Mike's bed - they should be nominated for sainthood, they both agree - just as the others return, suitcases in tow. All three men look like zombies. Gross zombies who still haven't showered yet. 

" _Pizza?_ " Ben says, on a gasp, and drops the four bags he's holding right there in front of the door. Bev bites her lip against a huge grin. 

"Oh m-my God, there's f-food in here," Bill says, hopping in behind with one crutch. "Eddie, they m-made food!"

"Get out of my fucking way, I need to wash everything," Eddie says, and the Losers part like the Red Sea, clearing a path from the front door to the bathroom. 

Bill winces a little, at the way Eddie slams the door behind him. "In retrosp-spect," he says, "we should've let him shower at the T-Townhouse."

Bill feels weird without his phone. He doesn't feel weird without Audra, which is something he plans on unpacking later. But the first thing he does when he wakes up the next morning - untangling his legs from Eddie's blanket, stepping carefully over Mike's legs on his way to the kitchen, politely avoiding looking at Bev and Ben on the pull out bed - is log into his email on Mike's laptop, so he can send her a _not ignoring you, lost my phone, I'll explain later_ message, which should count for something, he thinks. 

Then, as he's logging out, an email pops up from the email client that Mike uses - a Gmail address on Outlook, really Mike? - with his name in the subject line, which is how Bill discovers that Mike's got Google Alerts set up for all their names. Which is really fucking sweet. Less sweet is that Bill is trending on Twitter. 

"Fuck, fuck, fuck," Bill whispers, scrolling and scrolling and scrolling. Then Bev wanders into the kitchen, looking half asleep, and Bill looks up at her helplessly. "Fuck," he says again, and waits for her to ask. 

She blinks at him stupidly for a long moment, and then raises her eyebrows. "Whuh?"

Bill swallows and turns the laptop around so she can see. Her face drains of color. 

**Derry, Maine devastated by a deadly tornado, death toll confirmed at 204 and rising**

"Audra spoke to the press," Bill says, whispering for some reason, although he doesn't know why, "they know I'm here. Was here. They think I'm dead. Or missing, or whatever." Bill swallows again. "What the fuck?"

Bev leans hard against the kitchen table, blinking at the screen stupidly for a few moments. Her shoulders hitch a few times before she speaks. "There are...pictures, Billy."

There are. The town center, where they'd just been last night, a pile of rubble. The quarry filled in with debris. Helicopter shots of the street that they're _currently fucking sleeping in,_ reduced to a line of devastated buildings. Bill shudders so hard his knees hit the table. 

"I'm gonna wake the others," Bev says distantly, her voice eerily quiet. Bill nods silently, and presses his hands together above the keyboard until they stop shaking, and then logs back into his email to send Audra another message. 

Bev instantly goes for her phone, which is charging weakly in the wall next to Eddie's head. He's a restless sleeper, turns out, and his neck is on top of it. Gingerly, mindful of his cheek, Bev cups his face and moves it gently so she can slide it out from beneath his head, which of course wakes him up. Inhaling sharply, Eddie's eyes go wide in his face, Bev yanks her hand back apologetically, and they both hyperventilate at each other for a minute like the traumatized weirdos they are. 

"Sorry," Bev whispers finally. Eddie's clutching his chest like a heart attack victim, but his breathing seems to be evening out. "I was just trying to - you were laying on my phone, I'm really sorry - "

"Shit, sorry," Eddie whispers back, and quickly sits up. Next to him, Mike groans a little, and rolls over. 

"Come into the kitchen," Bev urges him, yanking the charger out of the wall. Her phone only has a few notifications, from her personal email, but that doesn't surprise her - she'd blocked Tom's number, deleted the messaging app from her home page and turned off text notifications. Her work email isn't even on this phone, either. "There's...there's some stuff."

"Stuff?" Eddie hisses, his dark eyes worried. 

Bev touches his face again, soft and kind. "Let's make some coffee," she whispers. Eddie's heart pounds, as he crawls to his feet to follow. 

It's really fucking weird. Bill controls the laptop, clicking from one news site to another, but it doesn't seem to be changing. Bev curls around a coffee mug and stares over his shoulder, and Eddie paces. 

"It doesn't make any fucking sense," Eddie says, trying to keep his voice down for the sake of Ben and Mike in the living room, but he can hear the panic rising with every word, nevertheless. "Are we all dead? Is that what's happening? Did It kill us all yesterday and we're in some fucked up purgatory universe now? Because that would be total bullshit."

"Let's call that 'Theory A,'" Bill says gravely. He gestures Eddie over, a live news feed from MSNBC pulled up. There's a picture of the library - again, the building they're _currently fucking in!_ \- leveled to the ground. Eddie swallows thickly; he recognizes the pillars outside. Unable to help himself, he walks over to the small window above the sink and looks; yep. Still there. Un-demolished.

"What the fuck," he says blankly. He pours himself more coffee, for lack of anything else. 

"And what's 'Theory B?'" Bev asks. 

"When someone c-comes up with it, I'll let you know," Bill says. He shakes his head at the screen. "Jesus. There's footage here of rescue crews - they're saying people are tr-trapped under buildings...the death count's up to 228 - "

All three of them swivel their heads toward the window. Outside, the street is quiet, birds are chirping. There's the faint sound of a garbage truck from down the street. As Eddie watches, two teenagers ride by on skateboards, backpacks hanging from their shoulders.

"We need Mike, I think," Bev says weakly. Blinking and shaking her head, as if pulling herself out of a stupor, she unlocks her phone and frowns at the screen. "My assistant is freaking out. She's the only one who knows where I am."

"Do you think…" Bill rubs his palms over his face. "If we leave - _when_ we leave - "

"Don't," Eddie says, his throat closing up. "It's over. It's dead. Right? We can leave whenever we want." He tries to swallow down his panic again, wash it out with coffee, but of course it's not really working. "This is just...I don't know what it is, but once we leave things will be normal again. Right?"

"I hope so," Bill says. He sounds grim. 

"Eddie, do you need a phone?" Bev asks kindly. She gestures to hers. "To call your...to call anyone?"

Eddie's throat closes up again, and a slightly hysterical laugh escapes. He shakes his head back and forth, and then buries it in his coffee mug. 

"Okay," Bev says gently. "Bill, what about you?"

"I've been emailing people, it's fine," Bill says tightly. His entire face says 'back off' so strongly that both Bev and Eddie recoil a little. 

"Okay." Bev swallows down her own panic. "Okay. We need to wake everyone up. Coffee, food. One step at a time." She swallows again. Her mouth tastes like ass. They'd forgotten to buy toothbrushes at the store last night. "One step at a time. Right?"

"Right," Bill and Eddie chorus, almost in perfect unison. Bev shivers a little, looking at them - so solid, and strong, and grown up. _Yeah, Beverly. One step at a time._

Ben doesn't take it very well. "I used to be so scared of tornadoes," he tells them, walking back and forth between the window that looks out over the library steps, the pull-out bed where Bill is sitting with the laptop, and Bev, who keeps brushing her hand against his arm as he passes by, blinking sadly at him as he panics. "My mom, she almost died in one when she was growing up in Kansas, and she told us the story once of how she had to hide in the root cellar, and I don't know, it always stuck with me." He stops a bit longer in front of Bev, breathing in her shampoo and letting her rub his arms as he tries to calm his racing pulse. "And before I moved to Derry, we lived in this small town west of Cincinnati for a couple years. Tornadoes every fucking summer. My dad got caught in his car once, pretty close to where it touched down, we didn't know where the hell he was until the next day. My mom was hysterical." He feels his throat close up, and Bev makes a small noise of sympathy, leaning her forehead against his collarbone. 

"If this were It," Bill says gently, letting the moment stretch a little while Ben gets ahold of himself, "we'd be seeing it here. Right? It would be something It used to torment us. But." He gestures frustratedly out at the calm windows. 

Eddie shakes his head, hunched over a stack of books with Mike. "I hate tornadoes too, Ben," he says, with bracing solidarity. "But I don't think this is It. I mean, we made fucking pizza last night. Pizza and tacos. And this morning - you guys can't feel it? You can tell, can't you?"

All five of them pause, looking around the quiet room at each other for a moment. Yes, they can all feel it. A latch that's been unlatched, a tether that's been cut. 

"These books aren't going to help," Mike says quietly. He looks a little helpless, his eyes wide and worried in his face. "This is like...something totally...else. Something totally different."

"Like what you told me last night, Mike," Bev says. "About how people treat you here. I saw it myself at the store - it's fucked up, guys," she says, tapping her fingers nervously against Ben's arm. God, she wants a cigarette so bad. "Like how people used to...not notice things, when we were kids - the disappearances, everyone kind of brushed them off - nobody but us could see the things It was doing - "

"I thought that was just, what's it called, the thing when people can't explain something so they just ignore it," Eddie says. "Psychosomatic amnesia, or whatever."

"Maybe it's both," Bev says, tossing one of her hands up in the air. "Maybe this town is full of assholes, _and_ it's some fucked up hellmouth portal. Or maybe we're all losing it."

Now that she's said it, a collective air of relief moves swiftly through the room. Nobody had wanted to be the first one to bring it up. 

"I don't feel c-crazy," Bill says thoughtfully. 

"Does anyone?" asks Ben. 

"Loaded question," says Eddie. Out of habit, he braces for Richie to say something crass, but remembers belatedly that he's not up yet. "Richie _can't_ still be sleeping through this."

"He's been out for almost eleven hours now," Bev says. "But he didn't really react when I tried to wake him up earlier, maybe he just needs it."

A prickle of unease crawls down Eddie's spine. "He didn't react?"

Bev's face falls. "I mean, he was breathing normally and everything - "

Eddie's already on his feet, stomping into Mike's bedroom. Behind him, he can hear the worried voices of his friends, and the clatter of Bev, close on his heels. 

"Richie," he barks, slamming on the light. On the bed, Richie is curled up on one side, wheezing a little in his sleep. Something tight uncurls slightly, at the sight of his shoulders moving up and down. "Wake the fuck up, lazy ass. It's ten o'clock in the morning."

"Eddie," Bev says uneasily, moving quickly to the side of the bed. "Open the curtains. Get some sunlight in here. Richie? Rich." She pats Richie's cheek gently. "Wake up, honey. _Richie_."

Richie doesn't move. Eddie remembers, all of a sudden, of the summer when they were seventeen, after Maggie Tozier passed away. Richie had slept on Eddie's bedroom floor for almost two months straight, waking up early enough to avoid Eddie's mom, and sneaking in so late that sometimes Eddie was already asleep. But every morning, he was there. Every morning, Eddie would wake up to the sound of Richie's breathing, and sometimes, if he woke up from a nightmare, Eddie would lean over the side of his bed and touch Richie's shoulder to feel its motion, to reassure himself. He does that now - pressing his palm against Richie's bicep. His skin is warm and alive, and his face isn't moving. 

"Richie," Bev says, a bit more urgently. Eddie swallows back his fear, and nudges her out of the way, sliding his palms up to Richie's face. "Oh my God, Eddie. The Deadlights - "

"Richie," Eddie says sharply, shaking his head back and forth a little, checking his pulse. It's strong, and normal. "Bev, he was normal last night. Right? He was normal. We snapped him out of it in the sewer - "

"Check his eyes," Bev says frantically, and Eddie's hands shake a little as he gently pulls one of Richie's eyelids back. The pupil is pure white.

Bev moans out loud, an audible sound of distress that feels like a direct punch to Eddie's solar plexus. He keeps his shaking hand against Richie's face, and closes his eyes for a second, a sick rush of memories floating up to the surface of his thoughts. It's been like this all morning - things he'd forgotten popping up, bits of his life revealing themselves one by one. Richie walking across the stage at graduation, completely naked under his robe. He'd flashed the crowd and made the local news. Richie leaning against the side of Ben's car, smoking a cigarette. Richie's arm around his shoulder in the hallway, pulling him close and blocking Peter Gordon's view of him, because Gordon always gave Eddie the most shit. Bill and Mike and Richie crammed together on the same love seat, laughing hysterically, their legs all tangled up together. Richie pinching his cheeks, _cute, cute, cute!_

"Fuck," exclaims Bill from the doorway. "Fuck! Should we take him to a hospital?"

"What the fuck are they gonna do for him there? He's just asleep. They'll think we're crazy," Bev says. Ben edges past Bill into the room and instantly Bev feels a bit calmer, reaching up shakily for his hand. Ben squats on his knees next to her and grips it tightly, looking worriedly at Richie's still form on the bed. 

"Kiss him," Eddie says hoarsely. His hands are still on Richie's face. "It's how we saved you."

"Me?" Bev squeaks. Bill hears himself make a somewhat embarrassing sound, too.

"Nobody kissed him in the sewer," Eddie says, laughing a little hysterically. "I just - he just sort of snapped out of it, but maybe it still has him somehow - and I mean, it worked before - "

"You should kiss him, Eddie," Mike says, hunched in the doorway with Bill. Eddie feels his skin go hot and cold all over, at the knowing look on Mike's face. "You're closer to him. You know him better than any of us."

"I haven't even seen him in years!" 

"None of us have, man!"

There's a heaviness in Eddie's chest and throat, like he's breathing in smog, or dust. He can't stop touching Richie's face. "Bev, you - you and Rich were always thick as thieves, he trusts you more than anyone - other than Stan, maybe - he talks to you, he - "

"Eddie," Bev says, and stops. The look on her face is both deeply sympathetic, and a little chiding. 

Eddie closes his eyes for a second. "Fuck you guys," he says, and Eddie hears Bill huffs out a soft laugh. Then he tells himself to grow a pair, takes a deep breath, and presses his lips against Richie's, his stomach quivering. The moment stretches, and hacks itself up into small pieces: the scratch of Richie's stubble, the breath from his nose against Eddie's cheek, the weird, fruity scent of his hair. Eddie thinks, somewhat hysterically, _look at me now, Ma,_ and pulls away, holding his breath. 

Nothing happens. Eddie shakily checks his eyes again - still white. 

"Shit," Bev whispers, and buries her face in Ben's shoulder. Mike turns and walks back out into the living room without a word, and Bill sags against the door frame, his injured foot held suspended in the air. 

"Fuck this bullshit!" Eddie exclaims, surging to his feet. "Fuck this, fuck this tornado, fuck this fucking town. Fuck!" He slams his fists against the window frame and holds them there for a second, his whole body shaking, like his skin is about to slide right off his bones. He thinks about the leper, the way the skin of it seemed to bulge, sliding in clumps off its face, and shudders. 

"We have to leave," Bev says, sound a little panicky. "Obviously, we have to leave. But if we take Richie out of town, maybe - "

"His glasses," Bill says. He snaps his fingers at them. "We need to get him some glasses."

"What?" Eddie spits, turning on one heel. "What the fuck is wrong with you, his glasses? What the fuck good will that do?"

"We kept saying he was blind," Bev says, catching onto whatever lunatic train of thought Bill is floating on, "last night. I mean - his eyesight's not _that_ bad, is it? Remember, he's shortsighted? But he could still kind of see without them. Enough to get around, at least - remember that time Greta Keene stole them in class, and he had to go the rest of the school day without them, and I mean, he was mostly fine - "

"He's forty fucking years old," Eddie grits out, between clenched teeth. "Eyesight gets worse. People age."

Bev's shaking her head. Next to her, Ben takes a shuddery breath, torn between fear and hope. "Not that bad. He was running into walls, Eddie." She looks over at Bill. "Can you get into his email? He had it open in Google Chrome, on Mike's laptop - "

"What the fuck are we _doing?_ " Eddie asks, desperately. "What _is_ this?" Nobody answers him. 

"Tornadoes," Ben says blankly, "guys, I dreamed about them last night. I dreamed about my mom's tornado." Bev clutches his hand tighter. 

"If It's not dead," Bill says grimly. 

"It's fucking dead!" Eddie says. "It's fucking, _fucking_ dead." He looks down at his hand, remembers the feel of crushing It's heart between his fingers. Yeah, real fucking dead. 

"Then something else is still happening," Bill says. He pushes himself upright by the door frame and starts hopping back towards the living room. "Bev's right. We need to leave. Let's get our shit together. We can figure out his prescription on the road. We're getting the _fucking fuck_ out of here."

"Amen," Ben says, and lets go of Bev's hand to rise to his feet, walking over to Eddie, who is still standing, lost, by the window, staring at Richie on the bed. "Eddie."

Eddie twitches. His heart aching, Ben reaches out to touch him, stopping short at Eddie's stiff shoulder. He looks like he's about to fall over. "Don't. Thanks, man, but don't."

"Alright," Ben says softly. Eddie blinks at him, and then looks back over at Richie. His left hand is laying flat on the bed, and for a moment Eddie sees a ring there, on his left finger. But then he blinks again, and it's gone, and Eddie wonders why he was thinking that in the first place.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Fuck off," Eddie mutters. "At least I didn't blink and teleport us to the fucking Midwest."

It takes Ben, Mike, Eddie, _and_ Bev to get Richie down the stairs of the apartment, through the library, and into a car. Not _their_ car - but a car they find, parked on the street, its doors unlocked. All things considered, none of them are willing to waste brain space on the small shit anymore.

"Jesus, he weighs like five hundred pounds," Eddie wheezes, leaning heavily against the door of the SUV. They'd had to curl Richie up in the back, behind the second row of seats, which would be funny if it didn't feel like they were trying to transport a dead fucking body. "Can we all fit in this thing?"

"If we abandon the bags," Bev says. She's got Mike's laptop, a couple grocery bags of food, and Ben, who's clutching her side and eyeing the street around them like it's about to come alive and attack him. She doesn't really blame him. "Anybody bring anything super important along on this scary death trip? No? Great."

"This is so fucking surreal," Ben says. Up on the steps of the library, Mike is patiently helping Bill hop down the steps. Bev's phone, in Eddie's pocket, buzzes again, and he pulls it out to see another notification from the outside world: death toll has risen to 252. Multiple bodies pulled out of the rubble of Derry High School, many of them children. Eddie shudders, thinks about the teenagers on the skateboards, and shoves the phone back in his pocket. 

"I do have some important stuff actually," Eddie says to Bev and Ben, who pause in tandem, already moving in the same life groove that Eddie's seen in couples twice their age. Like his boss and her husband, together for thirty-five years, who have the same mannerisms and hand gestures, who finish each other's jokes and even dress similarly, which Eddie had always found a little weird until this very moment, when he's picturing Bev and Ben as old people, sitting in rocking chairs on a porch somewhere, by a sunset. "Just papers and things. I can't leave them behind."

"Are they here?" Eddie nods. "Go get them then, we can find room," Bev says, nodding. "Quick. Ben, go with him - I don't think any of us should go anywhere alone."

Ben nods and claps Eddie's shoulder. "Come on, Spaghetti," he says. 

"Don't call me that," Eddie says, his throat a little tight. "It's not even cute when Richie says it."

"It's catchy," Ben says with a shrug. His eyes are soft, though, as he smiles at Eddie. Like he sort of gets what Eddie really had wanted to say. 

Eddie goes straight for his suitcase when they get back up to Mike's apartment, the two-hundred dollar Samsonite rolling briefcase that was actually called an "upright wheeled mobile office" on the website. Eddie hadn't brought his laptop, but instead had gone through his papers and packed his birth certificate, his tax returns for the past twelve years, his social security card, his mother's death certificate, the title to his car, and the year-end summaries of his investments for the past decade. In the side pocket is his passport and the key to a safety deposit box in Manhattan, where he keeps twenty-five thousand dollars in cash, and the stock certificates his late aunt had left to him in her will. Eddie rips all of it out and piles it in Ben's arms, who is staring at him with wide eyes, his mouth dropping open further and further with every stack of paper. 

"Eddie," Ben says carefully, "man, this is - "

"I can't leave any of it."

"Of course not. I just - " Ben doesn't know what to say. When they were kids, Eddie was the easiest to talk to, in many ways - he was as high-strung as any of them were, but he also had pretty clear triggers that were easy to avoid, and there were very simple things Ben could do to calm him down when he went spiraling. Unlike Stan, who clammed up and didn't talk to any of them, ever, or Richie, who operated on another plane of existence entirely with a whole separate set of rules, Eddie was simple and straightforward. Respect his clearly-vocalized boundaries and he'd be fine. Ben always liked hanging out with him; he found it calming, which made Richie laugh himself sick the first time he'd said that to the others. "Why'd you bring all this stuff with you?"

Eddie straightens up, kicking his expensive suitcase aside without another thought. "I didn't want to leave it at the apartment with my wife."

Ben lets that sit, for a moment. "Are you going back there?" he asks carefully. 

Eddie swallows. "No."

"Okay." Ben's chest aches, and he thinks of Tom Rogan, and the texts he'd sent before Bev blocked his number and then deleted her messaging app entirely. "Okay. You could've told us, Eddie."

"I know. I was going to. It's just been." Eddie waves his hand, shrugging helplessly. "We can talk about it later. It's not important right now."

"Yes, it is, man. Of course it's important. We're all important." Ben frowns. "Does she have access to your bank account?"

"To, uh, one of them. The one she...knows about."

"Okay." Ben tightens his arm around Eddie's papers. His whole life, in a thick stack of manila folders. Jesus. "Well - you had a plan already, I guess, that's good - how much money does she have access to?"

"Enough for her to cover rent for the next six months," Eddie says, still talking in that distant monotone he adapted, after he blew up in the bedroom. After they'd forced him to kiss Richie, Ben thinks. "She has a job, but it's part time, she works from home. She won't be able to cover bills by herself. So I wanted to give her some time to find something more affordable."

"Right, right." Ben's a little weirded out by Eddie's calm, but he doesn't know what's led up to this, how much thought Eddie may or may not have put into it. He doesn't even know Eddie's wife's name, for God's sake - he knows Eddie had said it, at the restaurant the other night, but Ben doesn't remember now. He'd been a little distracted, to say the least. "That's nice of you."

"She has all the credit cards," Eddie says simply. His shoulders twitch a little, like a half-shrug. "I'm not allowed to use them without her permission. The lease is in her name, so are all the bills. The car is mine, but only because she had terrible credit at the time - she went bankrupt when she was thirty-one. Credit card debt - go figure." Eddie's not sure why he's telling Ben all of this. He really hadn't wanted to talk about it. "I haven't seen any of the bills since...two years ago, maybe? I know she's been running up the balances. She buys things all the time. Online shopping, there's packages every day at the door. Like _every_ fucking day, Jesus." Eddie feels his breath starting to come fast and frantic in his chest. "She knows my social, she might've even opened new ones that I don't know about." Eddie presses one of his palms to his forehead, feeling faintly sick. "I got a raise at work, I started making more money, that's when she stopped letting me see them. They're all under my name, but I - I get bonuses every six months, and I haven't told her, I hid the money in a safety deposit box, so if I end up having to pay it I guess that's fine, I'll figure it out, I'll just - "

"Eddie," Ben says, stepping closer. The look on his face, so gentle and kind, makes Eddie want to throw up. 

"She doesn't even let me have the fucking Netflix password," Eddie says blankly, and then immediately regrets saying it. His face feels flushed and warm. "Fuck this. Come on, they're waiting for us."

Ben tucks the stack of papers into one arm, pressing it against his chest. With his other hand, he reaches out and touches Eddie's wrist, his eyes big and sad in his face. "Eddie," he says, soft and serious, "we'll help you. You know we will."

The thought takes Eddie's breath away. Of course he'd known that, the second Mike called. He'd remembered Ben first, actually, standing in that intersection, waiting for the cops to arrive. Ben and that birthday party, his sixteenth, the five Losers left in Derry gathering loyally at the Barrens to drink and make bad decisions together. That was the first time Eddie ever got drunk, and Ben sat with him for an hour as Eddie puked his guts out in the bushes, rubbing his back and offering him water from his thermos. 

_They'll help me,_ Eddie had thought, in that moment, as he'd started to remember. He'd gone straight home, and packed all his papers together while Myra was out at the grocery store, almost giddy with the thought: _I can leave. Finally, I can leave._ He just hadn't wanted to be alone. That was scarier than what he had, if he was being honest. Eddie figures that Ben would understand that, if Eddie told him, and the thought is sort of comforting, even if he knows he's not going to. "We should go," Eddie says instead, swallowing back the emotion. "Bev told us to hurry."

Ben squeezes his wrist, and then lets it go carefully. Eddie tucks it beneath his other arm, behind his back, feeling like he's thirteen and sixteen and forty all at once. "Alright."

Bev's already in the driver's seat when they make it back down, but Mike and Bill are hanging out of the backseat, and they look up and raise their eyebrows at the pile of paperwork in Ben's arms. "What," Bill starts, but Ben makes a face at him, and he shuts up. Eddie glares at all of them simultaneously. 

"Get in," Bev says impatiently. "We're committing grand theft auto, remember? Let's fuckin' go."

"I've always wanted to steal a car," Bill says idly, gripping his knee and sliding across the bucket seat to make room for Mike and Eddie. Ben takes the passenger seat without question, and carefully slides Eddie's paperwork beneath the seat. "I wrote a book about car thieves once."

"Yeah, it was bad," Eddie says, slamming the door shut behind them. The engine revs impatiently, and Bev is already pulling out onto the street as Ben pulls his own door shut quickly. "Three thousand motherfucking pages, Bill. Do you have an editor who actually _edits?_ "

"You read it?" Bill says, ignoring the criticism completely and sounding oddly touched. "Eddie, you didn't say."

"Your first one was the best," Eddie grumbles. Mike smiles at him, nodding in agreement. "How's Rich? Has he woken up?" He cranes his head over the back of the seat, to where Richie is curled up in the back. The blanket from Mike's couch is draped over his shoulders. 

"Still the same," Bev says dully. The streets are empty and sunny, quiet but not eerily so - just a normal, weekday morning in a suburb. She passes a blue sedan with a twentysomething woman driving, her music turned up loud enough that Bev can hear the bass line. "We can stop in Bangor to get him some glasses."

"Stupid," Eddie mutters, reaching over the seat to touch Richie's arm. His body heat is comforting. 

"Just getting him out of town might help," Mike says. "If it's not the Deadlights, it might be...something else, I don't know. But the glasses theory is better than nothing, Eddie - "

"Maybe we can try some glass slippers next," Eddie snaps. His hands tremble as he turns back around in his seat, and he folds them in his lap, pressing his fingers together to stop their shaking. "Or a magic rose."

"Well, the kiss from the p-prince didn't work," Bill jokes weakly. Ben makes eye contact with him in the rear view mirror and shakes his head minutely, and the car falls into a heavy silence. 

Bev takes a shuddery breath, and reaches out blindly for Ben's hand, who of course is quick to give it to her. She feels a little better just touching him - a strong and calloused palm, even breaths, dry, pleasantly scratchy skin. Tom's hands had been smooth and sweaty. "I'm getting on the interstate," she announces to the car at-large. "I know the highway is faster to Bangor, but the interstate is closer. And we can speed." She swallows. "Everyone just...just think about Bangor. Okay? Don't focus on anything else. The tornado, the Deadlights - none of it exists, okay? We're going to Bangor, and we'll buy Richie some new glasses, and he's gonna wake up and then we'll all get pancakes. Okay? That's _happening._ "

Bill looks over and sees Eddie's eyes close, one of his hands lifting to his forehead, like he's in pain. Mike is holding his other hand and looking over Eddie's shoulder out the window, watching the scenery roll by. Bill thinks about Mike's apartment back there - his little sanctuary - and reaches out for his other one, his throat thick. Mike squeezes his hand gratefully, snapping his head around to look at Bill, tears in his eyes. 

"We're all gonna be okay," Ben says after a moment, turning his head briefly to look at them in the back seat. "It's all gonna be okay."

"You're goddamn right," Mike says. He squeezes his friends' hands, feeling brave and confident, for the first time in a long time. "Bev. Drive as fast as you want. The state patrol doesn't leave the coffee shop until noon."

Bev nods grimly, and tightens her grip on the wheel. 

They drive for two hours, and Bill and Mike fall asleep, hunched over together and snoring. Eddie jiggles his leg until it starts to lose feeling, and Bev chews through her bottom lip. Richie doesn't wake up. 

The traffic starts to get heavy, and then the signs change color, which is Ben's first indication that something's off. He's been ignoring Bev's phone, in the charger on the dock by the radio, but some instinct makes him pick it up and swipe it open, checking the news app that she's left open. "Bev," he says quietly, "what time did we leave the library?"

Bev blinks. "I dunno."

"It had to have been at least noon, right? We were awake for awhile before we realized Richie was out." Ben swallows and swivels the phone around. The display reads eleven-fifteen AM. "Your data's on, your reception's fine. I already checked."

Bev looks back at Bill and Mike in the backseat, her face pale. Eddie leans forward tensely, reaching out for the phone. He blows out a quick breath once he sees it. "Jesus fucking Christ. Did we change time zones?"

"We've only been driving for two hours," Bev says. Her brow is sweaty from the sun, shining on her face, and she wipes at it with her forearm. "Bangor is still, what...forty minutes out? We can't have."

"We changed interstates," Ben says softly, leaning forward to squint out the window. "That sign we just passed said I-90 west."

"What?" Bev says sharply. "I didn't do anything, I didn't take any exits!"

"We've just been driving straight this whole time," Eddie says, with a softly rising panic. "We should still be on ninety- _five._ "

"Pull off," Ben says, "at this rest stop. Don't wake the others yet."

Bev swallows, and changes lanes. _Jesus, when does it end,_ she thinks.

They're in Indiana. "Fucking _Indiana,_ " Eddie says, pacing back and forth in front of the plastic-screened road map, on the wall outside of the rest stop. Bev is chain-smoking behind them, walking around in a tight triangle by the car, and Ben is frowning down at the phone, trying to get Google Maps to work. "That's. That's eighteen hundred miles. That's what, fifteen hours of driving? Jesus Christ. How is this possible. _How_ is this possible?"

"The same way a phantom tornado is possible?" Ben guesses. "They're still saying 252 dead, by the way. Anderson Cooper is on site, doing a special report. Can you imagine? Anderson Cooper in _Derry?_ "

"I hate that guy," Eddie says bleakly, "he's so fucking smug."

Ben sighs and gives up on Google Maps. None of Bev's apps seem to be functioning properly, which he doesn't really want to think about just yet. "Okay," he says, "so clearly we missed Bangor, somehow. We're actually forty minutes out from Chicago, believe it or not - "

"Unless the universe picks us up and pukes us out somewhere different again," Eddie interrupts.

"It's because I was driving, wasn't it?" Bev calls, her voice reedy and high. Eddie sees Ben's eyebrows crease in worry. "It's because I was driving. I know it. We ended up in Chicago because of me."

"Bev," Ben says, "honey - he can't find us, you don't have to see him - "

Bev laughs shrilly, and Ben stops talking abruptly, biting back the rest of everything he wants to say. Eddie takes a deep breath, eyeing both of them. 

"I'll drive for awhile," he says definitively, "maybe the magical interstate will take us to New York. They have optometrists in New York."

"We gotta wake the others and tell them," Bev says. 

"Are you kidding?" Eddie says. "No, let them sleep. This is fucking nuts. Let them rest."

"We should pull off," Ben suggests. "We're close to Gary, that's a pretty big city. We can get a hotel for the night. We're all exhausted."

"No, I can't stay here," Bev says, her eyes wild, "I can't be this close. I need - " she breaks off with a hitched sigh when Ben strides over and touches her arm, his hands gentle. "I need to keep driving."

"I'll drive," Eddie says again, and walks over to Beverly to gently pry the keys from her hand. He doesn't even wrinkle his nose at the cigarette smoke, which makes Bev want to cry a little. "I'll drive, okay? You can sleep too. You look like you need it."

Bev bites her lip, pressing one shaky hand against Eddie's bicep. "Are you sure, Eds?"

"Don't call me that," Eddie says, and pats her shoulder kindly. Bev really does let a few tears slip out, then. 

"I didn't even notice," Bev says, walking back towards the car, sandwiched between Ben and Eddie. "Did you guys notice? The scenery changing?"

"Not really," Ben says. "I - I might've been dozing a little."

"It just looked like a goddamn interstate," Eddie says impatiently. "They all look the same." He looks out at the green grass, the bright blue sky. Not Maine, clearly. But from the road, it was hard to tell. "Come on. Ben, you ride in the back."

"His legs are too long," Bev says, her voice watery and thin. She laughs a little. "You can have the passenger seat. I'll probably just fall asleep anyway."

"Come on, I haven't had hardly any time with Mike," Ben jokes, "I've missed his B.O."

Bev presses her face into his shoulder, and laughs again. 

Back in the car, Bill stirs only a little, drowsily listening to his friends talk outside of the car, but not really registering the words. He's been dreaming about Audra - her frantic email, which was the most concern she's shown for his well-being in almost a year. He'd sent her back a bewildered, worried message of his own, and her reply was long, and angry. Bill had only read the first few sentences before closing out the email, ashamed for some reason that he couldn't identify. He's been dreaming about their honeymoon - margaritas in Mexico. Audra's bright blue, colorblock bikini. Paparazzi hiding by the pool. 

"Bill? Hey, Billy." Eddie shakes his shoulder gently, reaching in through the open window. Groggy and sun drunk, Bill mumbles something, reaching up to swat his hand away. Mike snorts a loud snore against his shoulder. "Okay. You're just normal-sleeping, then." 

"No white eyes?" Ben asks, his shoulders loosening in relief. 

"No." Eddie retreats, and resists the urge to go check on Richie again. Bev's already done it, it would be weird. It doesn't matter that it would make Eddie feel better - because actually that's the thing that would make it weird. "Mike's fine too. He still snores like a chainsaw."

"Let's get going," Bev says, still anxious, her eyes jumping back and forth, her hands jittery in her lap. Ben climbs in behind her in the backseat, and reaches up to lay his hand solidly against her shoulder. "Let's get the fuck out of here. Please?"

Eddie slams the driver's side shut, and readjusts the mirror. "If we end up in New York," he warns them, "I might have a panic attack. Fair warning."

"Let's think about Hawaii," Ben says, still leaning his hand against Bev's shoulder. She leans into it, imagining it as a brick wall, a solid block of cement she can lay her head against. "Maybe if we think hard enough, we'll end up in Honolulu."

"Public beaches?" Eddie spits, with just an unbelievable amount of disgust. "No fucking thank you."

Bev laughs, still anxious and sharp at the edges, but her eyes are smiling at Eddie. "Better than public restrooms. Right?"

"Not by much," Eddie says sourly, and throws the car into drive so sharply the entire car lurches. 

Richie is dreaming, which he doesn't do often because he's spent most of the last decade on Ambien, which is something they give you when you're a rich person with a therapist who gets paid a hundred bucks an hour. You can walk into her office, with your hair still wet, and your clothes soaked in whatever the fuck was in the bathtub you'd passed out in the night before, and ask for something to help you sleep, and she usually won't ask questions. The Hollywood lifestyle. 

Richie dreams about Eddie's wife, which would be a funny thing to say out loud if Richie were awake, which he's not. In his dream Myra is played by Helena Bonham Carter and she's wearing the Bellatrix Lestrange outfit from the Harry Potter movies. Richie floats somewhere near the ceiling, and watches them eat dinner at an Arby's, which is how he knows he's definitely dreaming, because Eddie would rather die than eat inside the dining room of an Arby's. The other strong indication is that Eddie looks like he's about nineteen years old. He still has braces, for fuck's sake.

"She doesn't hate you," Eddie's saying. "She just needs some time to get used to you."

"She does hate me," says Helena Bonham Carter-as-Myra, British accent and everything, "she wouldn't even look at me at dinner."

"She'll come around," Eddie says dully. 

"What if she doesn't? Eddie Spaghetti, will you leave me?" Her eyelashes tremble, and then suddenly she looks like Rose Byrne instead, wearing the toga from that Troy movie. Greek slave Rose Byrne, with the curly hair and the gold arm bands and everything. Richie squints his eyes at the tableau, and tries to mind-fuck dream-twink-Eddie into a toga too, but it doesn't work. "They all warned me, you know. 'Never get involved with a mama's boy! You'll always come second!' Am I second, Eds?"

Those are _my_ nicknames, Richie thinks petulantly. 

"Of course not," twink-Eddie says, "Myra, you're the love of my life. I'll never leave you for anything, and I'm _definitely_ a heterosexual. Super straight and narrow, that's me. Married forever." Richie glares at him sourly, but he doesn't look up from his buttermilk crispy chicken cordon bleu deluxe sandwich. 

"Oh, Eddie, you're so sexy and great," says Rose Byrne. Myra. Whatever. "I love it when you fuck me hard every night in our heterosexual bed."

"Oh yeah, I love that too," says twink-Eddie, who is now wearing a toga.

"Fuck, _okay_ , I get it," says Richie, who's pretty over the whole thing by now. "Hands off! I know! Jesus."

The Arby's is sort of wavering, like Richie is looking at it through a heat glare in a desert, sunlight bouncing off the plastic chairs and making his eyes water. As Richie continues to watch, because what the fuck else is he gonna do, Rose Byrne and Eddie kiss obscenely over their plastic cups of soda, and everyone else in the dining room suddenly stops eating and turns to look at Richie, floating on the ceiling like a douchebag. His dream-breath catches in his dream-throat. 

"Freak," says Rose Byrne, her head swiveling around on her neck like the motherfucking Exorcist. Richie yelps. "Faggot. Braindead pervert _child_."

"Fuck you," Richie says, his hands scrabbling at the ceiling. He feels suddenly very hot. "I was magna cum laude, you Greek slave bitch!"

"Only in high school, and only because I let you cheat off me in fifth period Physics," says toga-twink-Eddie. His eyes are dripping black mucus. "And you couldn't even hack it at _art school._ You flunked out of fucking _art school,_ Rich, Jesus Christ."

"That place was a fucking joke, you would've made fun of me more if I'd actually graduated," Richie says weakly, but the blood is already rushing in his ears, and the scene is fading away. It's kind of true about art school, is the thing. Richie flunked his improv class because he couldn't stop puking in the middle of performances. 

Dreams are dreams, but nightmares are nightmares, Richie prefers one over the other very strongly. He's always been able to sort of lucid dream, in the sense that he's mildly aware of himself and the context while it's happening, but not in any useful, Inception-like way, where he can control it or stop the really bad ones from coming. Time bends and stretches and then wiggles, and Richie thinks about floating in the water at the quarry, the way the sun would reflect up off the water and give him bad sunburns that hurt to touch. 

He thinks about his sister Mary, who was born when Richie was fourteen, a year after Bev left Derry. The "let's have a baby so we don't get divorced" late-in-life child. Mary got married when she was eighteen to a fucking prick named John Nedermeyer, which was a stupid name - Richie called him Johnny Nerd, or Johnny Need-a-mother, or more often just "Ned," because he hated it and that was really what was important to Richie. She was eighteen when she got married and John the Ned was twenty-eight, but they got married because Mary was pregnant and that was still just What You Did, even in 2008. Small towns, _amiright?_

She lost that baby, he was born stillborn, and so was her second, which was a girl. John started sleeping with their next door neighbor and Mary moved to LA to stay with Richie for awhile, and they did a lot of coke together and crashed Mary's car on the 405. Richie got probation and rehab, and Mary went back to Maine and got back together with John, who promptly left her for a younger woman once Mary found out she couldn't get pregnant again. This was two years ago; now Mary's in nursing school in New Hampshire and she calls Richie every Sunday to make sure he's still alive, which often ends up in a screaming fight. It's the thought that counts, he figures.

They're not close, exactly, rather Richie regards her in the same way that one would regard a prison cellmate, some rando who was forcibly installed in the bed below yours and so you have to either make friends or get shivved in your sleep. The only time they talk about their feelings is when they're high, which means they don't talk about their feelings anymore. Sometimes Richie wonders if Mary was hyped to any of the weird shit in Derry - the way people would talk around things, look right past it like they didn't notice. It wasn't just the clown. It was all kinds of odd, reality-bending shit. Like one day in tenth grade, their principal was a middle-aged woman named Mrs. Holland, and the next, it was a young twentysomething guy named Mr. Holland, but he wanted everyone to call him by his first name, which was Tom. And everyone seemed to act like it had always been Mr. Holland, and not Mrs. Holland, nobody had ever _heard_ of a Mrs. Holland, and so Richie and the Losers sort of pretended like they remembered the same things everyone else did, and they didn't talk about it. Like, fuck that shit. 

In rehab they made Richie write letters to the people he loved most, which was how the group therapy leader had put it, "the people you love most," like it was a fucking fairy tale. They didn't have to read them out loud or anything, but the therapists would check to make sure they were actually writing them, and they would be Very Disappointed if he didn't take it seriously. Richie, at the time, didn't remember the people he loved most, and so he wrote to Mary, and his parents (who were dead), and to a girlfriend he made up for the purpose of therapy, because the counselor they assigned to him seemed to think it was weird when Richie said he'd never had a real relationship. 

"You're thirty-eight, Richie," he'd said, and Richie sees his stupid pug-face now, with his weird little nose and smashed in eyes, his rumpled collar and coffee-creamer breath. Why wasn't therapy like Good Will Hunting? Funny, grey-haired, tweedy Robin Williams who would joke around with him and just wanted him to be happy? Richie felt ripped off. "I've seen your standup - it doesn't help you to lie. I just want you to be honest with yourself, if nothing else."

Which was ironic, or something. Richie had spent so much time lying that now when he tells the truth people think he's bullshitting them. 

The letters he wrote to his parents ended up in the trash, after he showed them to his therapist for a gold star, and the fake girlfriend stuff got worked into his next tour set, so at least that time spent was sort of useful. The letters he wrote to Mary were sort of embarrassing and also, way too honest, but Richie kept them, for some reason, and for the two years or so afterwards, when he was collecting AA badges like a mofo even though he hated being sober more than anything, he hung onto them and thought about sending them, every once in awhile. Forcing some reality into the relationship, for once. _I'm sorry you can't talk to me about your babies. I can't say I know what it feels like, but I sort of do understand, I know that sounds arrogant, but I feel it, honest, but I can't explain it, and I don't know why. Do you have nightmares, Mary? Do you see fucked up things when you close your eyes? Why can't I talk to anybody. Do you think there's something wrong with me? Why can't I just calm my shit down and just be fucking normal?_

Richie dreams about art school, floats back to when he was twenty, in North Chicago, snorting pain pills with people he didn't like, auditioning for avant-garde post-modernist plays he didn't understand. He sees himself on that rundown campus, and Stan is there, poking his shoulder, dragging him out of the bathrooms, away from the druggie crowd, making Richie take drawing classes with him, teaching him how to sketch his fucking birds. This never happened, Richie thinks distantly, dreaming still about how the friend Stan could've been, the parties Richie would've dragged him to. All the time they should've had. 

He dreams about Bev at twenty-five, showing up unexpectedly at his shows, matching him shot for shot at the bar afterwards and impressing all the other comics, tricking them into thinking Richie is as cool as she is. Mike at thirty, helping him write his monologue for SNL. Ben at thirty-three, grey already starting to creep into his hair, in the front row for the Netflix taping. And Bill, thirty-five, asking Richie to stand up with him at his wedding. Not stuttering even once. 

None of it happened. What surely didn't happen at all is Eddie, Eddie at twenty, Eddie turning twenty-one, Eddie in his dirty thirties, Eddie in college, getting his first job, wearing polo shirts to work, riding the subway, yelling at someone on a Blackberry. Richie wants to know all the cars he's ever owned so he can make fun of them retroactively; he wants to know about every job, every internship, every class he ever took, every bad haircut he ever had. What was Eddie like in the late nineties? Where was Eddie on New Year's Eve in 1999, when everyone was so terrified that all the computers would crash and kill everything? Richie thinks Eddie was one of those people who took a bunch of cash out of the bank and stocked up on bottled water. The paranoid little freak. 

Richie wants to wake up. Specifically, he wants to wake up before this turns into a nightmare, which dreams always inevitably do. Bev's eyes will turn white, and her body will start floating upwards off the bar stool, her dress lifting up and her hair floating out around her head like a halo. Ben's hair will start falling out, sores opening up into pus on his skin, Bill's arm will start bleeding and fall off, Mike's eyes will rot in his face. And Richie's already seen Eddie die a million times, in the Deadlights, in his nightmares for the past twenty-seven years, the ones he never remembered when he woke up. Eddie sick, Eddie shot in the head, Eddie stabbed in a shower stall. Hit by a car, pushed off a cliff. His tongue torn from his face and his fingers ripped off, one by one. Richie lived a thousand days in the two minutes in the Deadlights, a long stretch of time that he's only starting to remember now. He gets the feeling that he'll be remembering things about those two minutes for the rest of his life. 

Eddie's wedding was at a church in Manhattan. Richie doesn't know how he knows this, maybe he doesn't, maybe he's just making it up for the purpose of this self-torture dream, but either way there they are, Myra and Eddie, exchanging vows in front of a priest. Eddie's a little bit younger - early thirties, maybe - his suit is neatly pressed, his shoes are shined. Myra looks like Sonia Kaspbrak - with longer hair. It's kind of disgusting. 

"I, Edward, take thee, Myra, to be my wedded husband - fuck," Eddie says, ripping one of his hands out of Myra's grip to rub sweat out of his eyes. "Let me start over. Can I do that?"

"It's fine," says the priest, scratching his nose.

"Eddie-bear, did you take your anti-anxiety pills? I left them in your suit pocket," Myra whispers. The tulle on her dress is ripped on the right side, it's been pinned back in place with a safety pin. Eddie swallows so hard Richie can see his Adam's apple bob. 

"Jesus, Eds," Richie whispers, floating near the ceiling again. This feels a little bit too real for his taste. 

"I, Edward," prompts the priest. 

"I, Edward," Eddie says. He looks like he's about to throw up. 

"Take thee, Myra."

"Take thee, Myra."

"To be my lawfully wedded _wife,_ " says the priest. 

"To be my lawful wedding wife," Eddie says. "Fuck. Lawful wedded wife. Lawfully. Can we start over again?"

"Stop cursing," Myra snaps, rolling her eyes. "It's fine. Keep going."

"To have and to hold."

"To have and," Eddie swallows again, "to hold."

"Jesus fuck," Richie says, squeezing his eyes shut. "Jesus, Jesus fuck." 

"From this day forward - "

"From this day - I'm sorry, can we take a break or something? I just need some water, I think," Eddie says, and Richie wants to die. 

"I do have another appointment in about an hour," the priest says pointedly. 

"Eddie," Myra hisses. 

"Do we have to do this whole fucking thing?" Eddie snaps. "We already filled out the marriage certificate, it's done. Can you just say the line? 'Man and wife,' Jesus, this suit doesn't even fit - "

" _Eddie,_ " Myra says. "We _talked_ about this."

"You're the one who wanted to elope," Eddie says petulantly. 

"I now pronounce you man and wife," says the priest quickly, and Richie opens his eyes just in time to see the look on Eddie's face, like he's just been punched in the gut. 

"Seriously, I fucking get it," Richie says, as they kiss. Myra makes a weird, giggly noise, and Richie hates her. He's never even met her, but he just really fucking hates her. "I _get_ it. Can we do something lighter now? Like the one where Paul Bunyan chases me through town and then ass-rapes me in front of all my friends. That one's a classic."

Eddie and Myra just keep kissing. The priest yawns. 

"Just fuck my fucking _life_ ," Richie says. Neither Eddie nor Myra reply, this time. Figures.

"He's twitching!" Bill yells. Mike startles so badly he knocks Ben's head off his shoulder. "Guys - Richie's having a nightmare!"

"Jesus Christ," Eddie mutters, staring down the highway. It's now eleven o'clock at night, he's been driving for twelve hours. They've stopped a dozen times for gas and bathrooms, practically running into gas stations and back out again, desperate to keep everyone together in the car, like the universe might reach down and snatch them up if they don't keep driving. Bev has been tracking their route obsessively on Google Maps, which had started working again as soon as they hit the Illinois state line. "Way to wake everyone up, Bill."

"We should pull over, right?"

"Whuh," says Mike.

"Is he awake?" Bev asks, craning her neck around. "Bill, can you check his eyes?"

Twisting over the seat, Bill grunts and groans and manages to get his hands on Richie's face, which is sweaty and disheveled from sleeping on the floor of a car for a day and a half. "Still white," he says dejectedly. As he has his hands on his cheeks, Richie moans a little, his bleached-out eyeballs moving back and forth beneath his lids. "But he's definitely dreaming."

"That's good, right?" Bev says. She twists even further, to touch Ben's arm. He's got his head pressed against the back of her seat, rubbing his eyes. "Ben, drink some water, honey. It'll help with your headache."

"Gimme some of that too," Mike mumbles. He flails around a little as he fumbles for the water bottle Bev passes him, from beneath her seat. "Are we still in Missouri?"

"Oklahoma," Bev says, resisting the urge to give him the specific GPS coordinates. She's been a little obsessive about it, even by Eddie's opinion, which is really saying something. "Just past Oklahoma City. Eddie thinks we can make it to Texas before he passes out behind the wheel and kills us all."

"Fuck off," Eddie mutters. "At least I didn't blink and teleport us to the fucking Midwest."

"You need to sleep eventually," Bev says quietly. Eddie doesn't look away from the road, and she sighs. "We never found an optometrist."

Mike is thinking about his books, back in Derry. He feels a little adrift, for the first time in his life, weird about how he left, weird about the pictures of his library that have been on Bev's news app. If they are back in the real world - if the real world is really real - then his library is gone forever, now. His books and his couch and his apartment and all his clothes - just gone. Swept up in a phantom tornado. "I think we did the right thing," he says. "Just getting him out of Derry. I think maybe that helped, somehow - that blink, or whatever it was. Maybe it got us past the worst of it."

"Worst of what?" Bill asks. Nobody answers him. 

"I can drive for awhile, Eddie," Mike says. "Seriously. I've been napping most of the day. You need rest, man."

"I don't want to sleep," Eddie says thinly. "I want to get us somewhere safe."

Every Loser in the car looks up at that, something pricking at all their hearts simultaneously. Eddie Spaghetti. Looking out for them, always. 

"Let him drive, Eddie," Ben says quietly, reaching up to clumsily pat Eddie's shoulder. "It's Mikey, man. He'll take care of us."

Eddie doesn't say anything for a long minute, but then his hands slacken a little against the wheel. Bev lets out a tense breath and carefully, very slowly, reaches out and touches his forearm. Eddie lets one of his hands fall into her grip, and blinks very fast for a few seconds. 

"Yeah, okay," he mumbles. Mike smiles at Bill, who is looking a little teary-eyed himself, shakily running his hand through his hair, over and over. 

They decide to pull off at the next town exit, but the next sign that pops up is a place called - not fucking kidding - _Slaughterville,_ which is just too fucking much, so Eddie drives for another half an hour to a small town called Purcell, which has a Carl Jr's open until midnight, and a Sonic Drive-In open until one, according to Bev's phone. 

"We should stop at another grocery store, if we can find one," Bev says. "In the morning, maybe, when things are open."

"Are we gonna drive all night?" Bill says wearily. "I mean - where are we even going?"

"My house is in north Austin," Ben says quietly, still squinting against his headache. "There's room for all of us."

Bill feels his shoulders relax a little. "That's cool, man. I love Austin."

"You've been there?" Ben asks. 

"I've done a few panels at South by Southwest over the years, yeah. I really liked the city."

"You guys are so insufferable," Eddie says, but his voice is too fond to have much of an impact. "'I did some panels, I have a big dick. Look at me.' Ugh."

Bill is laughing. "Hey, I didn't mention my dick. Maybe your Freudian slip is showing under that tight skirt of yours, Eds."

"Don't call me that!" 

Bev is laughing too, and even Mike, now, but then Richie makes a loud noise in the back, halfway between a yelp and a moan, and they all fall silent. 

"He's having nightmares," Bev says tightly. "We should've stopped for glasses somewhere. Even some fucking cheap ones at a drug store or something, fuck."

"Fuck the glasses, oh my God, it's such a stupid idea," Eddie blurts out, navigating sharply onto the off-ramp. The sign for Purcell is faded, pale green, and part of the reflective border has fallen off. "We'll do it in the morning. Or maybe he'll wake up on his own before then. Fuck."

"Maybe," Bev says quietly, patting Eddie's arm again. He resists the urge, heroically in his opinion, to shake her off. 

At the burger joint, it takes Bill a second to realize, so eager as he is to get out of the car to stretch his legs. He steps out without thinking, and then walks back and forth a few times, shaking the pins and needles out of his feet, before he thinks, _oh yeah, my foot,_ and looks down at himself dumbly. His injured foot is still wrapped in gauze, but it doesn't hurt at all. He hadn't even noticed. 

"Uh, guys," he says. Nobody else seems to have noticed, either. Eddie is leaning against the open trunk, checking on Richie, and Bev and Ben are huddled together by the front door to Carl Jr's, talking to each other softly, clearly waiting on them to follow. Bill hunches down, and rips the gauze off, hopping a little to keep his balance, and inspects the bottom of his foot. The stitches are still there, woven weirdly into his unmarked, uninjured skin. The swelling is gone, the bleeding is gone. It's like it never happened at all. "Uh, _guys!_ "

All of them look up in unison. It's almost kind of funny. 

"I thought it was weird, that Richie's glasses shattered like that," Mike says, as they gather around Bill in the parking lot, all of them taking turns to poke at his foot and make confused faces at each other. "Aren't eyeglasses usually shatter-proof? Especially with those big thick, plastic frames he had - I didn't get a close look at them before Richie threw them in the water, but later on, I thought it was strange - "

"Yes, we've fallen into a bizarro universe, what else is new," Eddie says impatiently. "Would be nice if some of that magic worked on my cheek, just saying." He grimaces and touches his bandage, which looks like it probably needs to be changed. He's started to bleed through it again. 

"Does it mean something?" Bev wonders out loud, sounding lost. "That Richie's glasses hurt him like that, and now it's healed? And Richie's starting to dream?"

"We still don't know that him sleeping has anything to do with his glasses, I mean not for sure," Ben says. "It is just a theory."

"You didn't see him at the apartment. He really couldn't see _anything,_ Ben. It has to be connected."

"Bev's right," Mike says. "Of course we don't know for sure, we have no frame of reference for any of this. But all of it has to mean _something,_ right? Or else it wouldn't be happening."

"Uh," Bill says blankly, "sure. Right."

"Has anyone checked the news app lately?" Mike asks. 

"Yeah, but it's pretty much the same stuff now," Ben says with a shrug. "Death count is still at 252. They've recovered some of the missing people, though. They set up a mobile hospital just outside of town for the minor injuries, and the Red Cross has put a lot of the displaced families in the football stadium in Brewer."

"The president spoke," Bev adds quietly. "So did the governor. Worst tornado in Maine's history. And it's up there on the national list, too, in terms of the number of casualties."

"Do you think," Eddie says, and has to stop to clear his throat, "if we went back now - not that I want to - that we'd see it, now? That instead of finding it...normal like it was when we left, we'd see what everyone else does? The tornado, the destruction?"

"Maybe," Bev says. She shivers in the cool night air, pulling Ben's sweater more tightly around her shoulders. 

"Did you guys know," Mike says, "that one of the central questions in modern physics is the so-called 'problem of time?' The theory of quantum mechanics relies on the assumption that time flows in one direction, absolute and universal. Whereas general relativity says that spacetime is relative, and doesn't necessarily go in one fixed direction. And it can be manipulated by forces, like gravity."

A small silence falls over the group, broken by, of course, Eddie. "Uh no, Mike," he says, "can't say we did."

Mike rolls his eyes. "Pennywise was from another dimension," he reminds them, as if they needed reminding, "that fact right there is proof for a lot of physicists' theories, if a demonic alien chaos entity was something that a physicist could present at a conference, anyway. When we killed It, we might have...affected more than just that one moment, is all I'm thinking. There are certain theories of time that say that the catalyst of an event can take place after the event itself, due to the relativity of spacetime. Maybe that's what we did."

Ben blinks at him, parsing through it in his head. "You're saying this is all just...after effects? Like we threw a rock in the water, and now these are the ripples?"

Bev looks over her shoulder at Richie, still twitching and dreaming away in the trunk. "The Deadlights," she says, in a tight voice, "they stretch time out. You feel like you're in there for years, when really it's only been a few seconds."

Ben can't help himself; he steps closer and wraps his arm around her shoulder. She shudders into the touch. 

"You guys," Mike says heavily. He looks at each one of them in turn - Bill, Bev, Mike, Eddie, Ben - missing pieces, together once more, shoulder to shoulder right there in front of him. Mike feels overwhelmed every time he realizes that they're all actually _here_. "I think that we probably need to...stick together for awhile. Until we're sure it's over. Because whatever ripples are going to happen, they're probably going to happen to _us_ , because we're the ones who threw the rock. You know?"

"Bullshit," Eddie mutters, glaring at the ground. "Such bullshit." Bill reaches out and wraps one arm around his shoulder, which Eddie surprisingly allows. 

"I don't have anywhere in particular to be," Bev says quietly. She glances over at Ben. "I have...things I need to do. But."

"We'll help you," Ben says. He looks over at Eddie in the next glance, his eyes heavy, and Eddie's throat closes up again. "We'll stick together. Figure out whatever needs to be figured out, with whatever we all have going on. We're stronger together - that's always been true. Right?"

"That's why It separated us," Bev agrees. 

Bill swallows. "Was it our fault?" he asks. "If the tornado happened because we killed It...all those p-people - "

"No," Eddie says firmly, shaking his head angrily at the ground. Bev smiles gently at Bill, who looks back at her with wide, uncertain eyes, his bare foot twitching against the pavement. 

Ben swallows and thinks about his big, empty house. He lives in a very small corner of it, and the rest of it just sits empty, which will be very obvious to the Losers when they arrive, and that's embarrassing. The fact that he hasn't made a single real friend since he left Derry is embarrassing, that he hasn't dated anybody, or even gotten close. His life is work, and home, where he reads novels and watches TV and that's it. He doesn't have hobbies, he doesn't go out and do anything. He's been to therapists that have convinced him he does it to himself, his mother thinks he has a social anxiety disorder, the friends he has at work think he's just shy and introverted, but now, he wonders, was it done _to_ him? When It stole his memories, did It steal other things, too? The ability to connect, to love, to live in the real world?

"The restaurant's gonna close soon," says Mike. He reaches out and claps Ben's shoulder, like he can sense what he's thinking about. Ben gives him a wobbly smile, his head still pounding. "Let's get Richie a burger. Maybe that'll inspire him to wake up already."

"Lazy son of a b-bitch, he's probably just trying to get out of driving," Bill says, wiping his eyes. None of them mention it.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I wonder what other famous people Richie got dumped by," Bill wonders out loud.

Eddie falls asleep the second they get back on the road, and he doesn't wake up for five hours. He jerks awake from a nightmare about Myra (who looks like Helena Bonham Carter for some reason) waiting for him at Ben's house, screeching about allergies and dragging him back home to New York by his ear. 

"We're almost there," Ben says, elbow-to-elbow with him in the backseat. He keeps his arm pressed close as Eddie tries to calm his breathing, his blood pounding in his ears from the dream, and when he finally calms down, Ben smiles at him like he's proud. "I can't believe we just drove halfway across the country in two days straight."

"Had some help on that one. Teleportation would solve a lot of infrastructure problems in this country, now that I think about it," Bill says, in the front seat now. Bev is passed out against Ben's shoulder, snoring loudly, which is pretty funny. Ben keeps looking down at her with a stupid look on his face. 

"We need a grocery store," Eddie reminds everyone. Mike looks up from the road briefly and gives him a thumbs up. "Find a Walmart. A big one. They'll have a pharmacy in it, and they'll sell glasses there."

"Did you find Richie's prescription?" Ben asks quietly. 

"Bev couldn't find it in his email," Eddie says. He blinks, and gestures at Bill. "Gimme the phone. I'll try again."

Bill hands it over with a significant look at Ben, who smiles back smugly. Eddie ignores them. 

Richie's email address is ricardomontalban@gmail.com, which is probably illegal, Eddie should report him for identity theft or something. Bev had been able to hack his password in like, a minute, but she wouldn't tell anyone what it was. ("I changed it to 'mymassivewang', all one word, no capitals," she'd told Eddie, "so we all could get into it.") Regardless, Eddie feels a little bit like a creep snooping, even if most of the messages are pushy ads from Postmates and Bernie Sanders campaign emails, or Google Alerts for all the separate members of Weezer, seriously Richie, what the fuck. 

"It's part of his standup act," Ben explains, snooping with Eddie over his shoulder. Bev mumbles something in her sleep, and moves her arm so that her hand is directly over Ben's crotch. Ben grimaces politely and tucks it back against her side. "He gets mistaken for the main singer all the time in public, so he has like, a running bit where he gives the crowd super mundane updates on their lives. Like 'Rivers Cuomo had a roast beef sandwich at the Subway on Rodeo Drive yesterday,' that kind of thing - "

"There's no Subway on Rodeo Drive," Eddie interrupts. "Ben, have you ever been to Rodeo Drive? What the fuck."

"Have you?" Ben asks skeptically, and Eddie scowls and keeps scrolling.

"Stupid. He's so fucking stupid," Eddie says. "You've seen his standup? It's stupid, right?"

"Pretty stupid," Ben says fondly. "Funny, though. Vulgar. But now that I remember him - remember everything - the parts I didn't like were the parts he obviously didn't write. You know? You can sort of tell."

"Yeah, I fucking knew it," Eddie says absently, tapping various glasses-related terms into the search bar. 'Optometrist' gives him nothing; so does 'eye exam.' Eddie is beginning to wonder if Richie has paid any attention to his eye health at all. "His early stuff, before he got fired from SNL - that was way better. He was definitely writing it himself, then. The episode of Premium Blend he did was all him. But the Comedy Central special right after - that was when they got him." Eddie looks up to see Ben looking straight at him, deadpan, and he scowls again. "What?"

"Nothing," Ben says, carefully not smiling. "Did you find anything?"

"I don't think Richie actually has an optometrist," Eddie says. "He's a gremlin. Why would he?"

"We'll try just a pair of reading glasses then. That'll work the same. Right?"

"He has nearsighted astigmatism, and his left eye is like, way more fucked up than his right," Eddie says. "Just a cheap pair of readers from Walgreens isn't gonna do the trick."

"Yes, it will," Ben says, glancing up at the front seat, where Mike and Bill are talking quietly, an easy fondness in the air between them. "It will because we need it to, because we all believe it will. Remember?"

Eddie feels something uncomfortable shift in his chest. He's not sure he's all that good at the believing part. 

"Should we be getting in touch with anybody for him, do you think?" Ben asks, concerned. "I don't want to interfere, obviously, but...has he mentioned anyone to you, like someone he's dating? He was kind of cagey about it when we asked him at dinner."

"No, of course not," Eddie snaps, but he navigates back to the main inbox quickly, needing to check. "Even if he was, wouldn't they be texting him? Who emails?"

"It's been a few days. If they knew he was in Derry, they're probably worried about him," Ben says. They'd Googled Richie of course, to see if he was making headlines like Bill had, but Richie had kept pretty quiet about his trip, it seems. The only thing people were talking about was the show he'd bombed in Chicago. "If he hasn't been replying, then they probably figured out that something happened to his phone. They might be trying to get in touch any way they could."

Eddie frowns, looking through the messages, but there's nothing personal, it seems. A bunch of messages from someone named Steve, who is clearly an agent or a manager or something, which none of the Losers had read. One unread message, two weeks old, from his sister, with the subject line _u owe me forty-two dollars and eighteen cents motherfucker_. A few messages from official email accounts for a few different comedy clubs in Reno. And that's pretty much it. Other than Bernie Sanders, of course.

"Richie hasn't dated anyone seriously since Sarah," Eddie says absently. 

"What?" Ben says.

"What?"

"Who's Sarah?" 

"Sarah...Silverman," Eddie says, realizing belatedly how weird this is, as he's saying it, "he, ah, he dated Sarah Silverman for about a year, in 2008. That was his last real relationship."

"Oh...kay," Ben says, "were they...in the tabloids, or something? Because I sort of followed his career too - probably the same reason you did, because I sort of remembered him but not really, and I don't remember ever seeing anything about - "

"No, holy shit," Eddie interrupts, letting the phone drop to his lap, "no, I have no fucking clue how I know that."

"Okay," Ben says again, slowly. 

"He, uh." Eddie has to stop and breathe deeply for a second or two. "They kept it quiet because that was when she was in the news a lot, do you remember there was that blow up about her saying something racist on Conan? Ben, holy shit, I don't know how I know this." Eddie laughs nervously. "They broke up when she got back together with Jimmy Kimmel while she was still sort of with Richie, and there was this whole thing where they were sort of broken up but not really, so Richie thought she had cheated on him but Sarah argued that it didn't count because they weren't together? Holy shit - "

"Eddie, dude, what the fuck is happening right now," Ben says. In the front seat, Mike and Bill have gone quiet. 

"Do you guys, uh," Eddie says, pressing the back of his hand to his head, "does anyone have any water? I need, um, some water right now please - "

Bill scrambles for a water bottle and hands it back over the console to Eddie, who immediately opens it up and splashes half of it in his face. It doesn't really help. 

"Guys," Mike says, "is there some more inexplicable shit happening? Because I can pull over."

"I think Eddie's having like, a delayed memory or something," Ben says. 

"About...Richie's sex life?" Bill asks uncertainly. 

"He called me!" Eddie exclaims. "He called me and told me this. I remember...talking to him, holy fucking shit. When they broke up, I remember, I sat on the phone with him for hours while he talked about it. He came to New York, we went out and got drunk...he said he was swearing off relationships forever."

"Uh, Eddie," Bill says, making eye contact with Ben, whose eyes are wide. Bev is waking up slowly, blinking and rubbing her eyes against his shoulder. 

"Why do I remember this? That never fucking happened," Eddie says. He shoves the phone at Ben, not wanting to be holding it anymore. "We didn't remember each other then. Right? I mean...the last time I talked to Richie, before all of this, was right before he moved away, because we fucking _forgot each other_ for twenty fucking years!"

"I'm pulling over," Mike says decisively. 

"Does anyone else remember this?" Bill asks. "Because I don't. Sarah Silverman, really? Richie got his heart broken by _Sarah fucking Silverman?_ "

Bev lifts her head up, squinting groggily. "What the fuck is happening?"

"Bev, do you remember Sarah Silverman?" Eddie demands, looking a little wild around the eyes. 

"Uh," says Bev.

"Hey look, there's a Walmart off this exit!" Mike says.

"Are you saying you're remembering something that never happened?" Ben asks. "Do you remember anything else?"

"I don't know, I - I need some more water," Eddie says haltingly. 

"I can't believe Richie dated Sarah Silverman," Bill says, still sounding vaguely incredulous. Secretly, he's sort of impressed. 

"Are we high?" Bev asks muzzily. Ben turns and smiles at her, and she smiles back, on instinct. "Are we all high? Did you guys smoke Richie's weed without me?"

Eddie splashes the rest of the water bottle on his face. 

"No, we're still saving it for Ben's place," Bill says reassuringly. "Something weird's happening to Eddie, that's all."

"A ripple," Mike calls knowingly, navigating smoothly into a turning lane. He even drives politely, Bill marvels to himself silently. 

"Fuck," Eddie says, and presses his forehead to the back of Mike's seat. Ben pats his shoulder comfortingly. 

"I wonder what other famous people Richie got dumped by," Bill wonders out loud. Bev frowns, still confused, and Ben mouths 'later' at her, motioning his head at Eddie. She raises her eyebrows, and nods. 

"Shut the fuck up, Bill," Eddie says sourly. "You're literally married to the evil queen from Game of Thrones."

"'Evil' is subjective," Bill says. "And she actually played the queen's cousin."

"Wait, that was her?" Bev exclaims. Bill grins, craning his head over the seat and meeting Bev's fist bump happily. "Oh my God, I knew she looked familiar! She was great on that, Billy. Super hot."

"Jesus Christ," Eddie says.

Mike, Ben, and Eddie go into Walmart while Bev and Bill and stay with Richie in the car, and as soon as they hit the doors Eddie tears off in the direction of the pharmacy section, not even sparing a glance over his shoulder. Ben and Mike look at each other gravely, and let him go. 

"I wonder sometimes, about his blood pressure," Mike says delicately. 

"Man," Ben says, shaking his head, "don't bring that up where he can hear. Are you kidding?"

"Right. Sorry."

They get a cart and start loading it up with a fuckton of food, not really thinking too far ahead about how they're going to fit it all in the car - they're twenty minutes out from the house, everybody can fucking deal - and Mike hovers around the edge of the clothing section as Ben debates cereal brands, rubbing his chin and frowning. 

"I'm gonna need new stuff," he says, as Ben joins him, shoulder to shoulder in front of a rack of polo shirts. "I left everything behind."

Ben's stomach twists, thinking about Mike's cozy apartment. The ceilings were water stained and the floors were splintering, sure, but Mike had lived there for a long time, and his careful attention and thought were all over it. Bookshelves that he'd clearly built himself, antique dishes, pictures on the walls. Twenty-seven years - Ben felt so guilty thinking about it sometimes, that he's honestly been trying not to think about it at all. 

"We'll help," Ben says, pressing his palm against the back of Mike's shoulder. "You good on money, man? You know that we - "

"Oh, I'm fine there," Mike says, waving his hand. He grins out of the corner of his mouth. "I'm not rich like you Hollywood motherfuckers, but I'll be fine. I'm just saying - "

"I didn't mean to imply anything," Ben says hurriedly. "I just mean - Mike, you gotta know, all you'd have to do is ask. What you did - "

"I didn't do it to be a martyr," Mike says. "I did it because someone had to, and I had reasons to stick around. My folks, the farm. You know. I never blamed any of you. The situation, the town, I resented the hell out of all of it, sure, but you guys? Never, Benjy. I was happy for you, all of you. I loved watching you all succeed."

"I know. I know, I just - "

"You feel bad." Mike reaches out and squeezes Ben's arm. "I know. It's okay, though."

Ben looks down at the ground briefly, blinking rapidly. Mike's wearing a pair of rain galoshes - the first pair he'd grabbed, on their way out. They hadn't spared much time for anything else. Ben and the others might've had to abandon their suitcases, but Mike had to leave his whole life behind. 

"What I was _actually_ thinking," Mike says pointedly, "that I don't have any spare clothes. I'm gonna need clean underwear, man." He squeezes Ben's arm again. "Shit, Ben. You really are jacked. Your arms look like He-Man's."

Ben feels himself blush. "Shut up."

Mike grins, and lets his hands drop. "Have you remembered anything weird?"

"Not yet," Ben says honestly. 

"Me neither." Mike turns back to the shirts, thinking about the conversation with Bev in the kitchen. "Good thing you and Bev got those tattoos, huh? Must've been nice, having that to help you remember what was real."

"Right," Ben says unthinkingly. "Wait. What?"

"What?" Mike says.

Ben frowns, his head swooping a little. "Tattoos?"

"Yeah?" Mike says, still looking blankly lost.

Ben frowns down at his arm, the little blue band that he and Bev had gotten tattooed on their right thumbs, two years after they'd gotten married. It was Bev's idea; they'd been having trouble remembering the others, and Mike couldn't exactly call to remind them every single day of their lives. Like that old cliche of tying a string around their finger, she'd said, only permanent. Ben still remembers the way she'd rushed through her explanation, sure that he was going to say no. "I - "

"Ben, what?" 

Ben shakes his head, forgetting why he'd felt weird in the first place. "Nothing, never mind," he says. 

Eddie's picking out reading glasses in the pharmacy, debating with himself whether the color will have any effect on the magical woo-woo shit that's supposed to wake Richie up, when he gets the bends and has to sit down right smack dab in the middle of the aisle. He's clutching a pair of +3.0 tortoiseshell Foster Grants and wheezing, and on the other side of the aspirin shelf, a little kid in a soccer uniform is staring at him with a lollipop sticking out of his mouth. 

"What?" Eddie bites out, glaring. This is why he doesn't have kids. "What's your problem?"

The child, who cannot possibly be any older than ten, flips him off and runs away. Eddie groans and presses his forehead against the metal rack. 

It's more than just Sarah Silverman. Eddie is remembering lots of things, much differently than how he'd remembered Derry the first time around - that gentle realization upon hearing Mike's voice, _oh yeah - it's Mike. Can't believe I forgot Mike!_ Seeing the other Losers for the first time wasn't traumatic or shocking at all, it was more like turning a corner and seeing something cool. _Of course, it's you! Of course._

So comparatively speaking this is more like running straight _into_ the corner and knocking your teeth backwards into your throat. Eddie closes his eyes and tries to breathe through it, thinking about a third-floor walkup in Bushwick with green tile in the kitchen, which is where Richie lived for three years before he started getting movie roles and moved out to LA. A dorm room in lower Manhattan, where Eddie lost his virginity to a repressed, closeted jazz guitarist with horn-rimmed glasses, which was extremely embarrassing when Bev found out but ultimately sort of fun, and holy fucking shit, Eddie restores cars for a living? Eddie restores cars for a living, actually! Did he have a panic attack on his first day at Goldman Sachs and then quit on the spot? He did. He really, really did. 

"Sir?" Blearily, Eddie looks up at someone in a blue vest leaning over him. "You doin' okay, buddy?"

"Fuck off," Eddie says wearily. 

"Sir, you can't sit in the middle of the aisle, I need you to get up," the employee says, and then speaks into his walkie talkie. "Just a drunk guy. Yes, _again_ \- "

"Oh my fucking God," Eddie says, and uses the glasses display to pull himself to his feet. A bunch of the frames at the bottom rattle off as he shakes it, and Eddie sees the employee look up at the ceiling briefly, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "I'm not drunk, I'm just having a panic attack or something, dickwad. Isn't this a pharmacy? Have you ever heard of compassionate fucking care?"

"Sir," he says, "you need to pay for those glasses in your pocket. Do you want Marisa to ring you up right here?" He points to the pharmacy counter.

Eddie narrows his eyes, his head pounding. He's thinking about the time he got kicked out of an Applebee's at seven pm because he drank too many three dollar mojitos and tried to take a nap in the booth. Ben and Richie had to practically carry him out, but they were laughing so hard they dropped him on the sidewalk twice. This was in 1999, probably. 

"No thank you," Eddie says primly, and turns on his heel. The employee follows him all the way to the front registers. 

_I'm not married,_ Eddie thinks, semi-hysterically, while the teenager is typing in his cracked credit card manually - whether his wallet had gotten smashed in the fight with Bowers or the sewers or somewhere in-between, Eddie doesn't really remember. He looks down at his left hand and sees his ring finger is bare, the tan on his skin smooth and unbroken. He remembers his wedding day to Myra - clear blue skies, an impatient priest, vows Eddie could barely get through - and also, somehow, he remembers that never fucking happening. Myra was a friend of his cousin's, they'd met at a family wedding, some dreary reception hall in Portland. He remembers sitting with her all night in a corner, letting her talk at him for two hours to avoid his creepy uncles, giving her his phone number and saying yes of course, my mother's mentioned you, I'd love to get coffee sometime, we should definitely get to know each other better, since you and Ma are so close.

Simultaneously, though, he also remembers taking Bev to that wedding instead. She'd been on break from college, visiting for the week, she'd just had the big, final break up with Bill and dyed her hair black and it looked terrible on her. Depressed and bummed out, she'd tagged along with Eddie, both of them joking about making out on the dance floor to scandalize all of his prudish relatives. She'd worn a killer dress, Eddie wore a bow tie, they sneaked in vodka in a water bottle and got happily smashed in the back corner, playing Never Have I Ever behind a giant fern. He'd met Myra briefly - said hello at the appetizer table - but Bev was right there next to him, hanging off his arm and pretending to be besotted with him, grinning out of the corner of her mouth and mussing up his hair. They left early, before the father-daughter dance, even, and waited outside for forty-five minutes for a cab before giving up and stumbling drunkenly back to the hotel. 

His head hurts. He looks at the ground and pinches his eyes shut, two lives laid on top of each other, like seeing double but in your fucking head. He remembers living with a girl named Tia for three years in his mid-thirties, a cocktail waitress he'd met at his shop, she'd brought her dad's Mustang in to get the paint redone, she had a sleeve tattoo and glasses (of course she wore black, thick, horn-rimmed glasses, God that's embarrassing, he was so transparent). They broke up right after Richie and Sarah did, but they're friends on Facebook, and she likes his photos every once in awhile, which Bev and Richie inform him is "friendly." He loans a nice car to the York College GSA every year for them to drive in the Pride parade. And his last fling, about a year ago, was with one of Richie's publicists, a twenty-eight year old Canadian named Nathan, which is why he and Richie haven't been on speaking terms for the past eight months. 

He was the best man at Ben and Bev's wedding. He once baked a six-layer cake for Mike's birthday, driving back to Derry with white knuckles, terrified of going back but unwilling to let Mikey spend his thirtieth birthday alone, and when he got there he'd ran into Bill and Richie, who'd had the same idea. (They had a _store-bought_ cake though, lazy assholes.) He opened a Twitter account in 2011 and got banned after a week for sending death threats to Richie, which everyone thought was fucking hilarious. He owns three cars, all of them classics that he'd put back together himself, but his favorite is a 1969 Plymouth Roadrunner that he'd sold to Ben four years ago, and every time Eddie flies to Austin to visit, Ben lets him drive it around in exchange for some free maintenance. He once spent a night in jail for beating the shit out of a racist asshole at a bar. He owns three different panini presses, and he lives in Queens, in a two bedroom townhouse in Flushing with blue tile floors in the kitchen and a tiny little garden sandwiched between the garage and the neighbor's fence, where he's been attempting to grow a tomato plant.

But also. Eddie and Myra live in Manhattan, in a ninth-floor apartment in a building with twenty-four hour security and very bad light. He's never been to jail, and he didn't remember having friends for most of his life, so he doesn't really do anything or go anywhere. He works in finance, and he drives a brand new Escalade that he hates. His wife is emotionally and financially abusive, and he's never been to Texas. Before today, anyway. 

"This is some real Sliding Doors bullshit, isn't it," Eddie says out loud. 

The cashier looks up from the keypad and frowns. "Sorry?"

"Me too," Eddie says, leaning against the side of the keypad ledge and pressing his knuckles against his temple. His head is just fucking _pounding._ "I hated that movie."

She rolls her eyes and ignores him. It's what he deserves, probably.

Bev and Bill are sitting in the open trunk of their stolen SUV, with Richie curled up in-between them. Bill is worried about food. Food for Richie, specifically - he can't sleep much longer without some sort of IV for fluids and sustenance, and he already looks visibly pale - to Bill's eyes, anyway. What's that thing you do, to tell when you're dehydrated? You press your thumb down on your skin and you're supposed to see the imprint after you lift it away? Or is it the other way around - it disappears faster? Bill can't fucking remember. 

"It's fucking eerie, you know," Bev says, holding Richie's hand in her lap with one hand, and smoking with the other. "It's so quiet without him. I keep hearing his voice in my head."

Bill presses his thumb against Richie's ankle. He can't really see the imprint after he lifts it away, but it's entirely possible that he did it wrong. "Yeah. I know what you mean."

"You haven't stuttered in hours, you know. Have you noticed?"

Bill frowns. "I haven't had a problem with stuttering in years, Bevvie. What are you talking about?"

"What are _you_ talking about?" Bev says with a laugh. "You were stuttering like, last night." Bill stares at her, confused, but she's already shrugging it off, rubbing her cigarette out against the edge of the license plate between her knees. "The glasses will work. They have to. If we believe they will, then they will."

Bill looks down at Richie, his heart skipping in his chest. They will work - they _will._ And if not, then they'll go to a hospital, and they'll be able to give him IVs, medicine, specialists, whatever. He's just sleeping, Bill tells himself. He's not dying - just sleeping. 

"Has Audra emailed you back yet?"

"I haven't checked since last night," Bill admits. He's been wielding Mike's phone, while Bev's has been jumping from hand to hand, whoever needs it. "Do you think I'm being a prick? Getting mad at her for posting about me on Twitter?"

"She was worried about you." Bev's face is sympathetic. "She thought you'd gone missing in a natural disaster. Maybe it wasn't the smartest way to go about it, but I can't say I wouldn't have done the same thing if I were her."

Something deep in Bill's heart twinges at the sentiment, or maybe just Bev saying _if I were her._ If Bev were his wife. Bill keeps his eyes carefully on Richie's gaunt, sleeping face, not wanting to look at her yet. "I guess there's a part of me that thinks she...wasn't being sincere about that. She's sort of opportunistic sometimes, when it comes to publicity. I mean, she's an actress, it's her job, right? I shouldn't be so judgmental, but - you know, it hurts my feelings sometimes, that's all."

"Of course. It's hard."

"Like our anniversary. You remember we went to New Zealand?" Bill sees her nod, out of the corner of his eye. "We'd talked about it and I thought we'd agreed to just ignore our phones the whole time, she even told me she was going to leave it at the hotel while we went out and about, you know - but then she'd bring it with her anyway. And I didn't want to fight, so I let it go, but then she was on it all the time - the whole time it felt like I was competing with her fucking Facebook fans for attention - and then later I found out she went viral with that thread about the flight attendant, on the plane to Auckland - "

"It was a funny thread," Bev says, attempting to joke. "And she called you 'Perfect Husband' in it, that's gotta count for something, right?"

Bill laughs dryly. "You'd think," he says. "I just thought...it wasn't supposed to be this hard. Is it supposed to be this hard? It doesn't seem hard for you and Ben."

"Now that's not fair," Bev says quietly. "Just because we don't talk to you about it doesn't mean we don't have our own problems."

Bill finally looks at her, surprised by the reproachful note to her voice. "I know that, Bev. I didn't mean to imply anything."

"I...yeah," Bev says, frowning deeply. She looks out at the parking lot, biting the corner of her lip, and then shifts her position against the car, looking troubled. "Bill, am I - "

"What?"

There's a long beat of silence. "I'm married," Bev finally says, sounding faintly surprised. She looks down at her hands - the ring tattoo on her right thumb, and her wedding ring on her left. Ben gave her his grandmother's ring, when he proposed, but she almost lost it at the pool so she wears a plain engagement band instead, terrified that she would let it slip off somewhere and lose Ben's precious family heirloom because she's clumsy. They'd fought about that, but not seriously - more serious was the fight about her phone calls to Bill, in the middle of the night sometimes when he'd wake up from a Georgie nightmare and need to talk to someone who remembered. It was always Bev that he called, and everyone knew why. Ben's been trying for years not to let it bother him too much. 

"Yeah." Bill doesn't know what's bothering her, exactly, only then he blinks and remembers the bruises on her ribcage, back at the quarry, the viciously dismissive way Bev talked about her husband, the way Richie had frowned at them at the restaurant, tilting his head at her phone, and his breath catches in his throat. "Oh shit, Bev, you're married to Ben, not Tom. You married _Ben._ "

"I'm married to Ben," Bev echoes faintly, hearing her own voice as if it's coming from the end of a very long tunnel. 

"I - " Bill swallows back saliva, feeling faintly nauseous. "Oh my God. I made an ass of myself at your wedding."

"You did." Bev laughs suddenly, sharply, covering her mouth with one hand. "You really did."

This was before Audra. Bill almost hadn't gone, but Eddie called him three weeks before and ripped him a new one, called him self-centered and childish and immature, and so Bill gave himself a pep talk, rented a suit, and went. He got smashed before the ceremony even ended, gave an intensely embarrassing speech, and went home with one of Ben's cousins, a grad student named Molly who was way too young for him, and made an ass of himself in front of her, too. Ben wouldn't talk to him for months. 

Bill remembers, with sudden, painful clarity, watching Richie jogging through the ballroom to the stage, since he'd been in the bathroom when Bill had gotten ahold of the microphone. Bill had said something about the building being on fire right before Richie snatched it out of his hands and proceeded to rescue the reception singlehandedly, distracting everyone with an improvised bit on Ben and Bev's honeymoon plans while Eddie and Mike yanked Bill out of the ballroom by his ears. Jesus, how embarrassing. He could've lived the rest of his life without remembering _that._

"I'm so sorry," Bill says. "Oh, holy shit. I puked in a fern. I'm _so_ sorry."

Bev is just laughing silently, tears in her eyes, leaning the side of her head against the car. "Oh my God, you did. I think the venue charged us for that."

They'd gotten married in Derry, so Mike could come. Bill bets they _over_ charged them, if anything. "No wonder I eloped with Audra, I thought none of you would actually come if I tried to have a real wedding. Bev, am I a dick? Like, I'm asking you genuinely. Am I an asshole?"

"We're all assholes, Bill," Bev says, still laughing. She's thinking about Richie's third comedy tour, which she had tagged along with for the New Mexico-to-Oregon leg, and their charming little habit of trashing their hotel rooms and letting Rich's management company pay for it. One time in Vancouver, Richie was filming a Seth Rogen movie and Bev got him to introduce her because she wanted to see if she could fuck James Franco, but they got too high and Bev passed out in the trailer and missed her Skype call with her aunt for her sixtieth birthday. Eddie and Richie have been fighting for almost a year now, because Eddie fucked Richie's publicist and then rubbed it in Richie's face, and Bev's been playing both sides of that argument, since Richie totally has a right to be mad, but on the other hand Eddie's tendency to be a huge fucking douche is pretty charming, in its own way, like a dog who shits on your shoes to get your attention. And it's not like Bev is squeaky clean herself, when it comes to flaunting things in front of the Loser who's still hung up on you - if cell phones had been advanced enough for group chats back in 1998, Bev cringes to think what she would've done to get back at Bill. 

Ben's really the only one who can claim to be a nice person, and even he can hold a grudge like a mofo. And just by virtue of what he's sacrificed over the years to hold down the fort in Derry, Mike totally gets a lifetime pass for cheating on Eddie's cousin in high school, and also sleeping with Bev's business partner at the wedding and then ghosting her the next day, not to mention the thing with the stripper at Bill's bachelor party that they're all too embarrassed to bring up in front of him. Bev really hopes Eddie deleted those pictures. 

"Bev, are we...awake right now?" Bill asks uncertainly, after her laughter dies down enough for the atmosphere to feel strained. Bev swallows and looks over at him, seeing the fear in his face. It's enough to sober her up completely. "My head hurts. Does yours?"

Bev nods silently, pressing her free hand to her throat. Richie's hand twitches against her thigh, and he mumbles something in her sleep. Both of them turn to look, holding their breath until he settles again. 

"It's like I'm remembering...two different versions of things," Bill murmurs. "Holy shit. Holy...holy shit. Bev, what the fuck - "

Bev reaches out and grabs his forearm, clutching it so tight that he winces. "Bill," she says, "do you remember Stan?"

"Of course I - " Bill stops. "Stan Uris. Yes?"

"He was - he had curly hair. Right?"

"Yes, and he lived on Hickory Street."

Bev chokes back tears. She doesn't remember when they'd all lost touch with Stan. She doesn't remember Stan being in any of these new memories - not at her wedding, not at Bill's, not at Richie's shows, Ben's graduation. Was he there, with them, in high school? Bev closes her eyes and tries to remember, picturing his goofy little frown, his curly hair, those button up shirts he wore every day, perfectly ironed and pressed, but she can't. Was he there with them on graduation, when Richie streaked across the stage and got himself on the local ABC news? Was he behind them in math class, next to them in the water on Saturday afternoons? Did he follow them out of Derry, was he part of the plan to keep each other from forgetting? 

"He married someone named Patty," Bill says faintly. "Right? He was an accountant."

"Bill. Bill, I don't remember him. He wasn't there with us."

"He was with us the first time we fought It, wasn't he? I remember something about a painting…?"

Bev's shaking her head. "Yeah but after that, where did he go? Bill, I can't remember anything else about him. Do you?"

Bill looks over at her with wide eyes, his face pale. His throat bobs as he swallows. "No."

He remembers cutting Stan's hand, the way the bandages had bunched up his hair in the middle of his forehead. Stan's palm being clammy and sticky with dirt, the way he'd cradled it with his uninjured one against his stomach. _I gotta go,_ he'd said, after they'd let their hands fall. _I hate you._ The way his head had bobbed as he rode away on his bike, bouncing up and down above the tall grass. Had they seen him at school, in September? Did Richie run into him at the synagogue? Did he even exist at all, after that day, standing on that gravel road, holding hands?

Bev feels sort of ill. "He took himself off the board," she murmurs, one hand flying back to her throat. "Oh God. _Stan._ "

Bill can't help himself; he reaches out and pulls her close. For once, it's not about the little tug in his stomach that he feels every time he looks at her, not about the regret or the bitterness between them that they try not to look at too closely - he's thinking about Stan, and his binoculars, and his khaki shorts and his keds. Crossing his arms stubbornly. The shower caps! And, Jesus, the way his face had bled. Bev tucks her face against Bill's shoulder and shudders, clutching the collar of her shirt and squeezing her eyes shut. 

After a second, Bill clears his throat. "Do you remember Sarah Silverman now?"

Bev barks a laugh against the inside of her arm. "Yeah, God, she was such a bitch," she says. "I don't know why Rich put up with her for so long."

"Repression," Bill says knowingly. As if he has any fucking room to talk.

"This has been," Eddie announces, stomping towards the car like he's storming the beaches of Normandy, "the longest Walmart run of my entire fucking life. Ugh, really?" Ben and Bev are kissing desperately against the passenger side door, whispering tearfully to each other while Mike and Bill avoid eye contact. "Guys. I love you both but I need you to cut that shit out right now."

Ben pulls away, his face still scrunched up with emotion. "Eddie," he says, reaching out to clasp Eddie's bicep. "We're _married._ You were our best man!"

"You had two best men," Eddie reminds them, but he's gentle when he shakes Ben's hand away, reaching past them for the door handle. "Remember? Richie and I tag teamed it."

"That's what she said," Bev says, through her tears. It'd been Richie's _favorite_ joke ever, in the months leading up to their wedding. Everyone groans in unison. 

Mike steps back from the trunk, where he and Bill have been loading the grocery bags in around Richie, boxing him in as carefully as they can. Bill's started to lay the softer, lighter ones on top of him, even, which is definitely pretty rude but Mike's sure that Richie's the only one of them who wouldn't be offended. "You got some glasses?"

"Yes," Eddie says dryly, holding out a bag. He'd actually bought six pairs, somehow, probably because of the nervous breakdown he'd had in the pharmacy aisle. At any rate, it's worth a shot. "Should we try it now, or wait until we get to Ben and Bev's to be disappointed?"

" _Our_ house," Bev says, jittering a little. She punches Ben's shoulder in excitement. "We have a house!"

"I know!" Ben says. "I built it!"

"Oh my God," Eddie says, rubbing his face. 

"Let's get on the road," Mike says hastily, pulling a couple of the t-shirts he'd picked up for himself out of a bag, and tucking them beneath Richie's head. Richie snorts in his sleep and rubs his face against them. "Eddie, don't even think about it. We heard the security guard talking into his radio about a 'belligerent, drunk, homeless man in the pharmacy,' don't think we didn't know that was you." Eddie glares at him. " _Ben's_ driving."

"I resent that," Eddie says. "Cars are my job. I remembered that in there - I literally build them for money. I can drive."

"You're such a control freak," Bill says. "Other people know how to drive too, Eds. Remember in college when we drove to Tennessee on Spring Break and he almost killed us because he had a panic attack on the interstate? And you _still_ wouldn't let me drive that piece of shit Honda you had - "

"Wow, all these new memories, how fun," Eddie says, flipping him off. Popping open the door, he leans down to look beneath the passenger seat, where Ben had stashed all his paperwork. Eddie is not particularly surprised to find that it's gone. He looks down at his ringless hand again, uncertain if he should trust it. Will they keep bouncing back and forth? In one world, he'd left in the middle of the night like a coward, taking everything he could with him like a fucking refugee, but in the other...he'd locked his door, watered his tomato plant, and drove away. And that was it. "Fine. Ben can drive."

"Magnanimous of you," Ben says. Eddie tosses the keys at his chest, and Bev reaches out and catches them before they smack against his arm. 

"Oh my God," Bill says, stopping short by the back door. He looks over his shoulder at Mike. "I just remembered another car accident story about Eddie. Ben, do you remember New Year's Eve in Omaha, that blizzard? Eddie tried to drive to Kum 'n Go - "

"Shut the fuck up, Bill," Eddie says, rubbing his nose. 

Ben claps him on the shoulder companionably, laughing along. "You got stuck in the parking lot," he informs Eddie, as if he doesn't remember. "It was pretty funny."

"Everyone get in the fucking car," Eddie says. "Right now, not kidding. I have a migraine."

"He has a migraine," Bev stage-whispers to Ben, because she's an asshole. Ben nods gravely, his face arranged to look dramatically serious, and Mike and Bill snicker as they climb in. 

Friends. His best friends, specifically. Eddie would die for them, and also, he can't stand them. 

It's a messy jigsaw puzzle in the car, Bill and Ben keep exclaiming out loud, trading stories that neither of them remembered two hours ago. Bev keeps blinking away tears, which none of them want to comment on, and every few seconds her eyes drift to Eddie in the backseat, who is staring down at his ringless hand, speechless and disbelieving. It's fuzzy, Mike thinks, because it's not solid yet; probably in a few days the memories will settle, sort themselves into logical order. He leans his head back against the seat and thinks about eating mushrooms with Richie in 2001 on his parents' old property, not long after his father finally passed, a few nights before the new owners were due to take possession. They'd gotten so fucking high, laying out there in the wheat field, and Richie had rambled to himself for hours, and Mike laid there listening and found himself crying, by the end of the night, silent tears rolling down his face as he watched the colors of the night sky swirl together in loops and whorls that almost coalesced into shapes, that maybe could've been answers to questions that Mike still has. He hadn't thought Richie noticed, but as they finally crawled back inside to the falling down farmhouse Richie reached out and hugged him, casually, like it was no big deal, and Mike remembers thinking, _the only time people touch me is when they come back. The only time I exist is when they're here._

Were they there for real? Mike used to imagine it, all those long, lonely years, what it would be like if they remembered, if they came back to visit, if he could just call them up and talk to them about it all. Mike meant what he said, when he told Ben that he didn't resent them, but that doesn't mean it wasn't hard. He remembers standing alone, at his father's funeral service, but he also remembers Bev and Eddie being there, holding his elbows and crying their own tears as the priest eulogized. He remembers getting drunk, alone again - alone always - in his apartment, the night he turned in his thesis for his library science degree, but he also remembers Skyping with Bill and toasting each other with champagne from six hundred miles away. He remembers holding Bev's hair back as she puked all her nerves out an hour before she married Ben. He remembers Richie calling him on the verge of tears after he found out Eddie was living with a woman and hadn't told anybody. He remembers swimming at the quarry, in his twenties, in his thirties, last summer even, when Ben came back to help him clean up the library after the termites, visits and phone calls and twenty-seven years of people who loved him no matter what. He remembers all of it, which means that it happened, surely? It means that it was real?

"Mike, you good, man?" Bill asks, reaching out in the middle of a laugh to touch his shoulder. Mike opens his eyes and realizes he's crying. Eddie's frowning at him too, his eyes wide and worried. 

"I'm fine," Mike says mindlessly, craning his neck to look over the seat at Richie, who is drooling on Mike's new t-shirts. "I'm fine."

"Are you sure?" Bev asks, from the front seat. "It's a lot, Mikey. I know. We're all right there with you."

"It's another ripple, right?" Bill asks. "A good one."

"I think so, yeah," Mike says, feeling his own expression tearing open in front of them, all the emotion in his throat rising up to his eyes for them to see. "Because we stayed together. We left together, this time. I think...that was the right idea."

Bev feels a chill, deep in her sternum, at the prospect of what could've happened if they'd chosen the wrong idea. "What about Rich?" she says. "Do you think he remembers too? The...new stuff?"

"He has to, right?" Bill asks. He pulls out Mike's phone. "It - it is real. It's real. It changed a lot about our lives. Ben, Bev, you're really married, right? You live together at the house in Austin. We've all been there dozens of times." Bev looks down at her thumb tattoo and tears up again, reaching out blindly for Ben's hand. It shakes in her grip, as they entwine their fingers over the gear shift. "Eddie, you - you're not married. You have your own business. Look - " He holds out the phone - Eddie's garage's website. Eddie glances at it, and then looks away quickly, his mouth pulled unsurely to the side of his face. "I remember it all like it really happened. Because it did."

"Yeah. But I remember the old stuff too," Eddie says distantly. His hand is tapping idly on Mike's wrist, patting him reassuringly while he stares out the window at the highway. He doesn't seem to notice that he's doing it. 

"Yeah, but it's getting fuzzier," Ben says. 

"We still fought It," Bev says. "We all still went back a week ago, and killed It. Bowers is still dead, and Eddie, you still have the wound on your face - Richie still got caught in the Deadlights, I still remember the tokens, the ritual - the blood - all of that happened the same way - "

"Stan," Mike says, not knowing why he says it, even as he says it. There's a fleeting memory of a thin, curly-haired kid wearing a blue button-up sweater, but it fades quickly, and Mike frowns. 

"Stan?" Bill says, like he doesn't recognize the name. Bev whips her head around quickly, alarm passing over her face, before it fades into confusion. 

Sudden fear grips Eddie's chest, and he has to clench his fist against the door handle to keep from turning around to check on Richie. "We should hurry," he says, "he's been asleep for so long, you guys. Almost three days."

Ben grips Bev's hand and presses his foot a little harder against the gas pedal. His heart is pounding in his chest so hard he can feel it in his throat. "It'll work," he says grimly. "The glasses will work, Eddie. Don't worry."

"Yeah," Eddie says, and then starts to say something else, but he can't finish. Instead he finds himself holding Mike's hand, staring out the window at the blurred power lines, dipping up and down, a cutting black line through the blue, cloudless sky.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> whoops I lied, this isn't the last chapter! Sorry. I swear I'm wrapping it up, tho. Please talk to me forever about all the raunchy comedians/shock jocks Richie probably slept with in the nineties, because I'm absolutely obsessed with the idea of him being like, Dave Attell-meets-Dane Cook, but somehow still so much worse than both.


End file.
